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ulunie  XXIII  Number  1 

A.  J.  Armstrong,  Editor  F.  M.  Allen,  Manager 


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Founded  1845  at  Independence 
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BAYLOR   UNIVERSITY 

WACO.  TEXAS 


The  Haylor  JUilU'tiii 
JANUARY,  1920 


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Homage  to 
Robert  Browning 

Bp  ALEPH  TANNER 


Printed  by  the 
Baylor   University   Press 


INTRODUCTION 

This  book  has  resulted  from  a  course  in  the  study  of 
the  poetry  of  Robert  Browning  which  I  took  while  at- 
tending Baylor  University.  My  knowledge  of  the  poet 
and  his  work  was  extremely  limited — and  I  fear  prejudiced 
— but  the  more  I  studied,  the  greater  was  my  enthusiasm 
and  admiration.  This  led  me  to  undertake  for  my  senior 
thesis  (A,  B.)  the  gathering  of  tributes  to  Robert  Brown- 
ing, and  the  task  has  afforded  me  much  pleasure — 
despite  the  immense  amount  of  work  necessary  to  collect 
these  poems  and  secure  the  privilege  to  print  them. 

Some  poems  contained  in  the  volume  have  never  before 
been  published:  they  were  written  and  read  at  special 
Browning  functions,  and  it  has  been  due  to  the  generous 
co-operation  of  Browning  lovers  everywhere  that  I  have 
been  able  to  locate  these  lines.  Even  now  I  have  secured 
information  concerning  other  poems  which  I  fear  will  not 
reach  me  in  time  to  include  in  this  book.  I  feel  certain 
that  there  will  be  another  volume  issued  as  a  supplement 
to  this  one,  so  that  I  now  appeal  to  all  readers  to  send 
to  me  or  to  Dr.  A.  J.  Armstrong,  Baylor  University, 
Waco,  Texas,  any  other  poems  or  information  concerning 
other  poems  which  I  have  not  included.  At  first  it  was 
purposed  to  include  parodies,  but  the  collection  grew  to 
such  proportions — and  the  parodies  have  a  unity  in  them- 
selves— that  it  was  decided  to  use  only  the  serious  poems 
and  to  issue  later  a  collection  known  as  Parodies  of 
Robert  Browning's  Poems.  Any  one  knowing  of  paro- 
dies will  confer  a  great  favor  by  reporting  such  poems. 

Since  the  admirers  of  Browning  live  in  every  clime 
and  follow  every  walk  in  life,  one  will  not  be  surprised 
to  find  here  a  variety  of  verses,  and  as  a  natural  result 
the  contrast  in  poems  is  at  times  marked,  yet  all  have 
sought  to  render  "Homage  to  Robert  Browning" — so 
that  in  our  arrangement  "there  is  no  first  or  last." 

Browning!  That  name  has  served  as  a  password  which 
has  opened   to   me  many   a  treasured    friendship,   for  all 

Page    Three 

Ml6618i 


Browninc;  lovers  seem  to  have  caught  the  Poet's  optimis- 
tic messajjc  and,  like  Pippa,  can  always  sing, 

"God's  in  His  heaven,. 
All's  right  ivith   the  world!" 

That  you,  dear  reader,  may  derive  pleasure  from  these 
pages  is  my  earnest  hope,  for  it  has  been  a  work  of  love. 

My  indebtednesses  have  been  so  numerous  that  I  have 
hardly  known  where  to  begin  to  acknowledge  them.  Miss 
Marie  Ada  Molineux,  of  the  Boston  Browning  Society; 
Miss  Florence  Weir  Gibson,  of  the  New  York  Browning 
Society;  Mr.  Frank  H,  Chase,  of  the  Boston  Public 
Library;  Dr.  S.  G.  Ayer,  of  Garret  Biblical  Institute, 
Evanston ;  the  librarians  of  Baylor  University,  of  New 
York  City,  of  Congress  and  of  the  British  Museum,  have 
r-euerously  co-operated.  The  authors  and  publishers  of 
the  poems  collected  have  without  exception  given  me  per- 
mission to  reprint  their  works.  But  most  of  all,  I  would 
thank  my  teacher  and  friend,  Dr.  A.  J.  Armstrong,  whose 
devotion  to  Browning  has  through  a  long  period  of  years 
induced  many  students  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  this  master 
poet  and  has  sent  them  on  their  way  with  an  abiding  love 
for  poetry  and  v/ith  higher  ideals  of  life. 

Aleph  Tanner. 


Gonzales,  Texas,   May   7,    1920. 


Pa^e  Four 


Homage  to  Robert  Browning 


SONNETS 
FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 

By  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 


I  THOUGHT  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 
Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for  years, 
Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young: 
And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 
I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears. 
The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years. 
Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 
A  shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I  was  'ware, 
So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair, 
And  a  voice  said  in  mastery  while  I  strove,  ..... 
'Guess  now  who  holds  thee?' — 'Death,'  I  said. 

But,    there, 
The  silver  answer  rang  .  .  .'Not  Death,  but  Love.' 


But  only  three  in  all  God's  universe 

Have  heard  this  word  thou  hast  said, — Himself,  beside 

Thee  speaking,  and  me  listening!  and  replied 

One  of  us  .  .  that  was  God,.  .  and  laid  the  curse 

So  darkly  on  my  eyelids,  as  to  amerce 

My  sight  from  seeing  thee, — that  if  I  had  died, 

The  deathweights,  placed  there,  would  have  signified 

Less  absolute  exclusion.     'Nay'  is  worse 

From  God  than  from  all  others,  O  my  friend! 

Men  could  not  part  us  with  their  worldly  jars. 

Nor  the  seas  change  us,  nor  the  tempest  bend; 

Our  hands  would  touch  for  all  the  mountain-bars, — 

And,  heaven  being  rolled  between  us  at  the  end. 

We  should  but  vow  the  faster  for  the  stars. 


Page   Seven 


HOMAGE       TO 


III. 
Unlike  are  we,  unlike,  O  princely  Heart! 
Unlike  our  uses  and  our  destinies. 
Our  ministering  two  angels  look  surprise 
On  one  another  as  they  strike  athwart 
Their  wings  in  passing.    Thou,  bethink  thee,  art 
A  guest  for  queens  to  social  pageantries, 
With  gages  from  a  hundred  brighter  eyes 
Than  tears  even  can  make  mine,  to  play  thy  part 
Of  chief  musician.     What  hast  tJiou  to  do 
With  looking  from  the  lattice-lights  at  me, 
A  poor,  tired,  wandering  singer,  .  .  singing  through 
The  dark,   and   leaning  up  a  cypress-tree? 
The  chrism  is  on  thine  head, — on  mine,  the  dew, — 
And  Death  must  dig  the  level  where  these  agree. 

IV 

Thou  hast  thy  calling  to  some  palace-floor, 

Most  gracious  singer  of  high  poems!  where 

The  dancers  will  break  footing,  from  the  care 

Of  watching  up  thy  pregnant  lips  for  more. 

And  dost  thou  lift  this  house's  latch  too  poor 

For  hand  of  thine?  and  canst  thou  think  and  bear 

To  let  thy  music  drop  here  unaware 

In  folds  of  golden  fulness  at  my  door? 

Look  up  and  see  the  casement  broken  in, 

The  bats  and  owlets  builders  in  the  roof! 

My  cricket  chirps  against  thy  mandolin. 

Hush,  call  no  echo  up  in  further  proof 

Of   desolation!    there's   a   voice  within 

That  weeps  .  .  as  thou  must  sing  .  .  alone,  aloof. 

V. 

I  LIFT  my  heavy  heart  up  solemnly, 

As  once  Electra  her  sepulchral  urn, 

And,  looking  in  thine  eyes,  I  overturn 

The  ashes  at   thy  feet.      Behold   and  see 

What  a  great  heap  of  grief  lay  hid  in  me, 

And    how   the   red   wild   sparkles   dimly   burn 

Through  the  ashen  greyness.     If  thy  foot  in  scorn 

Could   tread   them   out   to   darkness  utterly. 

It  might  be  well  perhaps.     But  if  instead 

Thou  wait  beside  me  for  the  wind  to  blow 

The  grey  dust  up,  .  .  .  those  laurels  on  thine  head, 

O  my  Beloved,  will  not  shield  thee  so. 

That  none  of  all  the  fires  shall  scorch  and  shred 

The  hair  beneath.     Stand  further  off  then!  go. 


Page  Eight 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


VI. 

Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward   in   thy  shadow.      Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,   I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before. 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which   I   forbore,  .  . 
Thy  touch  upon   the  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of  thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes,  the  tears  of  two. 

VII. 

The  face  of  all  the  world  is  changed,  I  think, 
Since  first  I  heard  the  footsteps  of  thy  soul 
Move  still,  oh,  still,  beside  me,  as  they  stole 
Betwixt   me   and    the   dreadful   outer   brink 
Of  obvious  death,  where  I,  who  thought  to  sink, 
Was  caught  up  into  love,  and  taught  the  whole 
Of  life  in  a  new  rhythm.     The  cup  of  dole 
God  gave  for  baptism,  I  am  fain  to  drink. 
And  praise  its  sweetness,  Sweet,  with  thee  anear. 
The  names  of  country,   heaven,   are  changed   away 
For  where  thou  art  or  shalt  be,  there  or  here; 
And  this  .  .  this  lute  and  song  .  .  loved  yesterday, 
(The  singing  angels  know)    are  only  dear, 
Because  thy  name  moves  right  in  what  they  say. 

VIII. 

What  can  I  give  thee  back,  O  liberal 

And  princely  giver,  who  hast  brought  the  gold 

And  purple  of  thine  heart,  unstained,  untold. 

And  laid  them  on  the  outside  of  the  wall 

For  such  as  I  to  take  or  leave  withal. 

In   unexpected   largesse?  am   I   cold, 

Ungrateful,  that  for  these  most  manifold 

High  gifts,  I  render  nothing  back  at  all? 

Not  so;  not  cold, — but  very  poor  instead. 

Ask  God  who  knows.     For  frequent  tears  have  run 

The  colours  from  my  life,  and  left  so  dead 

And  pale  a  stuff,   it  were  not  fitly  done 

To  give  the  same  as  pillow  to  thy  head. 

Go  farther!  let  it  serve  to  trample  on. 


Page  Nine 


HOMAGE        TO 


IX 

Can  it  be  right  to  give  what  I  can  give? 

To  let  thee  sit  beneath  the  fall  of  tears 

As  salt  as  mine  and  hear  the  sighing  years 

Re-sighing  on  my  lips  renunciative 

Through   those  infrequent  smiles  which   fail   to   live 

For  all  thy  adjurations?     O  my  fears, 

That  this  can  scarce  be  right!     We  are  not  peers, 

So  to  be  lovers;  and  I  own,  and  grieve. 

That  givers  of  such  gifts  as  mine  are,  must 

Be  counted  with  the  ungenerous.     Out,  alas! 

I  will  not  soil  thy  purple  with  my  dust, 

Nor  breathe  my  poison  on  thy  Venice-glass, 

Nor  give  thee  any  love  ....  w^hich  were  unjust. 

Beloved,  I  only  love  thee!  let  it  pass. 

X 

Yet,  love,  mere  love,  is  beautiful  indeed 

And  worthy  of  acceptation.     Fire  is  bright, 

Let  temple  burn,  or  flax.     An  equal  light 

Leaps  in  the  flame  from  cedar  plank  or  weed. 

And  love  is  fire;  and  when  I  say  at  need 

/  love  thee  .  .  mark!  .  .  /  love  thee!  .   .   in   thy  sight 

I   stand   transfigured,   glorified   aright. 

With  conscience  of  the  new  rays  that  proceed 

Out  of  my  face  toward  thine.     There's  nothing  low 

In  love,  when  love  the  lowest:  meanest  creatures 

Who  love  God,  God  accepts  while  loving  so. 

And  what  I  feel  across  the  inferior  features 

Of  what  I  am,  doth  flash  itself,  and  show 

How  that  great  work  of  Love  enhances  Nature's. 

XI. 

And  therefore  if  to  love  can  be  desert, 

I  am  not  all  unworthy.     Cheeks  as  pale 

As  these  you  see,  and  trembling  knees  that  fail 

To  bear  the  burden  of  a  heavy  heart, — 

This  weary  minstrel-life  that  once  was  girt 

To  climb  Aornus,  and  can  scarce  avail 

To  pipe  now  'gainst  the  valley  nightingale 

A  melancholy  music, — why  advert 

To  these  things?    O  Beloved,  it  is  plain 

I  am  not  of  thy  worth  nor  for  thy  place! 

And  yet,  because  I  love  thee,  I  obtain 

From  that  same  love  this  vindicating  grace. 

To  live  on  still  in  love,  and  yet  in  vain,  .  . 

To  bless  thee,  yet  renounce  thee  to  thy  face. 

Page  Ten  y 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


XII. 

Indeed  this  very  love  which  is  my  boast, 

And  which,  when  rising  up  from  breast  to  brow, 

Doth  crown  me  with  a  ruby  large  enow 

To  draw  men's  eyes  and  prove  the  inner  cost,  .  . 

This  love  even,  all  my  worth,  to  the  uttermost, 

I  should  not  love  withal,  unless  that  thou 

Hadst  set  me  an  example,  shown  me  how, 

When  first  thine  earnest  eyes  with  mine  were  crossed 

And  love  called  love.     And  thus,  I  cannot  speak 

Of  love  even,  as  a  good  thing  of  my  own. 

Thy  soul  hath  snatched  up  mine  all  faint  and  weak. 

And  placed  it  by  thee  on  a  golden  throne, — 

And  that  I  love   (O  soul,  we  must  be  meek!) 

Is  by  thee  only,  whom  I  love  alone. 

XIII. 

And  wilt  thou  have  me  fashion  into  speech 

The  love  I  bear  thee,  finding  words  enough. 

And  hold  the  torch  out,  while  the  winds  are  rough, 

Between  our  faces,  to  cast  light  on  each? — 

I  drop  it  at  thy  feet.     I  cannot  teach 

My  hand  to  hold  my  spirit  so  far  off 

From  myself  .  .  me.  .  .  that  I  should  bring  thee  proof 

In  words,  of  love  hid  in  me  out  of  reach. 

Nay,  let  the  silence  of  my  womanhood 

Commend   my  woman-love  to  thy  belief, — 

Seeing  that  I  stand  unwon,  however  wooed, 

And  rend  the  garment  of  my  life,  in  brief, 

By  a  most  dauntless,  voiceless  fortitude. 

Lest  one  touch  of  this  heart  convey  its  grief. 

XIV. 
If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 
I  love  her  for  her  smile  .  .  her  look  .  .  her  way 
Of  speaking  gently,  .  .     for  a  trick  of  thought 
That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day' — 
For  these  things  in  themselves,  Beloved,  may 
Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee, — and  love,  so 

wrought. 
May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 
Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry, — 
A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 
Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby! 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  may'st  love  on,  through  love's  eternity. 

Page  Eleven 


HOMAGE        TO 


XV. 

Accuse  me  not,  beseech  thee,  that  I  wear 
Too  calm  and  sad  a  face  in  front  of  thine; 
For  we  two  look  two  waj^s,  and  cannot  shine 
With  the  same  sunlight  on  our  brow  and  hair. 
On  me  thou  lookest,  with  no  doubting  care, 
As  on  a  bee  shut  in  a  crystalline, — 
Since  sorrow  has  shut  me  safe  in  love's  divine. 
And  to  spread  wing  and  fly  in  the  outer  air 
Were  most  impossible  failure,  if  I  strove 
To  fail  so.     But  I  look  on  thee  .  .  on  thee  .  . 
Beholding,  besides  love,  the  end  of  love, 
Hearing  oblivion   beyond   memory! 
As  one  who  sits  and  gazes  from  above, 
Over  the  rivers  to  the  bitter  sea. 

XVI. 

And  yet,  because  thou  overcomest  so. 

Because  thou  art  more  noble  and  like  a  king, 

Thou  canst  prevail  against  my  fears  and  fling 

Thy  purple  round  me,  till  my  heart  shall  grow 

Too  close  against  thine  heart,   henceforth   to  know 

How  it  shook  when  alone.     Why,  conquering 

May  prove  as  lordly  and  complete  a  thing 

In  lifting  upward,  as  in  crushing  low! 

And  as  a  vanquished  soldier  yields  his  sword 

To  one  who  lifts  him  from  the  bloody  earth, — 

Even  so.  Beloved,  I  at  last  record. 

Here  ends  my  strife.     If  thou  invite  me  forth, 

I  rise  above  abasement  at  the  word. 

Make  thy  love  larger  to  enlarge  my  worth. 

XVII. 

My  poet,  thou  canst  touch  on  all  the  notes 

God  set  between  His  After  and  Before, 

And  strike  up  and  strike  off  the  general   roar 

Of  the  rushing  worlds,  a  melody  that  floats 

In  a  serene  air  purely.     Antidotes 

Of  medicated   music,   answering   for 

Mankind's  forlornest  uses,   thou  canst  pour 

From  thence  into  their  ears.     God's  will  devotes 

Thine  to  such  ends,  and  mine  to  wait  on  thine. 

How,  Dearest,  wilt  thou  have  me  for  most  use? 

A  hope,  to  sing  by  gladly?  .  .  or  a  fine 

Sad   memory,  with   thy  songs  to   interfuse? 

A  shade,  in  which  to  sing  ...  of  palm  or  pine? 

A  grave,  on  which  to  rest  from  singing?  .  .  Choose. 

Page  Twelve 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


XVIII. 

I  NEVER  g;ave  a  lock  of  hair  away 

To  a  man,  Dearest,  except  this  to  thee, 

Which  now  upon  my  fingers  thoughtfully 

I  ring  out  to  the  full  hrown  length  and  say 

'Take  it.'     My  day  of  youth  went  yesterday; 

My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot's  glee. 

Nor  plant  I  it  from  rose  or  myrtle-tree, 

As  girls  do,  any  more.     It  only  may 

Now  shade  on  two  pale  cheeks,  the  mark  of  tears, 

Taught  drooping  from  the  head  that  hangs  aside 

Through    sorrow's    trick.      I    thought    the    funeral-shears 

Would   take  this  first,  but  Love  is  justified, — 

Take  it  thou,  .  .  finding  pure,  from  all  those  years. 

The  kiss  my  mother  left  here  when  she  died. 

XIX 

The  soul's  Rialto  hath  its  merchandise; 

I  barter  curl  for  curl  upon  that  mart. 

And  from  my  poet's  forehead  to  my  heart. 

Receive  this  lock  which  outweighs  argosies, — 

As  purply  black,  as  erst,  to  Pindar's  eyes. 

The  dim  purpureal   tresses  gloomed  athwart 

The  nine  white  Muse-brows.     For  this  counterpart. 

Thy  bay-crown's  shade.  Beloved,  I  surmise. 

Still  lingers  on  thy  curl,  it  is  so  black! 

Thus,   with  a   fillet   of   smooth-kissing  breath, 

I  tie  the  shadow  safe  from  gliding  back. 

And  lay  the  gift  where  nothing  hindereth. 

Here  on  my  heart,  as  on  thy  brow,  to  lack 

No  natural  heat  till  mine  grows  cold  in  death. 

XX 

Beloved,  my  Beloved,  when  I  think 
That  thou  wast  in  the  world  a  year  ago, 
What  time  I  sate  alone  here  in  the  snow 
And  saw  no  footprint,  heard  the  silence  sink 
No  moment  at  thy  voice,  .  .  but,  link  by  link, 
Went  counting  all  my  chains,  as  if  that  so 
They  never  could  fall  off  at  any  blow 
Struck  by  thy  possible  hand  ....  why,  thus  I  drink 
Of  life's  great  cup  of  wonder!     Wonderful, 
Never  to  feel  thee  thrill  the  day  or  night 
With  personal  act  or  speech, — nor  ev£r  cull 
Some  prescience  of  thee  with  the  blossoms  white 
Thou  sawest  growing!  Atheists  are  as  dull, 
Who  cannot  guess  God's  presence  out  of  sight. 

Page  Thirteen 


HOMAGE        TO 


XXI 

Say  over  again,  and  yet  once  over  again, 

That  thou  dost  love  me.    Though  the  word  repeated 

Should  seem  'a  cuckoo-song,'  as  thou  dost  treat  it, 

Remember  never  to  the  hill   or  plain, 

Valley  and  wood,  without  her  cuckoo-strain. 

Comes  the  fresh  spring  in  all  her  green  completed. 

Beloved,  I,  amid  the  darkness  greeted 

By  a  doubtful  spirit-voice,  in  that  doubt's  pain 

Cry  .  .  'Speak  once  more  .  .  thou  lovest!'     Who  can 

fear 
Too  many  stars,  though  each  in  heaven  shall  roll — 
Too  many  flowers,  though  each  shall  crown  the  year! 
Say  thou  dost  love  me,  love  me,  love  me — toll 
The  silver   iterance! — only  minding,   Dear, 
To  love  me  also  in  silence,  with  thy  soul. 

XXII 
When  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong. 
Face  to  face,  silent,  drawing  nigh  and  nigher. 
Until  the  lengthening  wings  break  into   fire 
At  either  curved  point, — what  bitter  wrong, 
Can  the  earth  do  to  us,  that  we  should  not  long 
Be  here  contented?     Think.     In  mounting  higher, — 
The  angels  would  press  on  us,  and  aspire 
To  drop  some  golden  orb  of  perfect  song 
Into  our  deep,  dear  silence.     Let  us  stay 
Rather  on  earth.  Beloved, — where  the  unfit 
Contrarious  moods  of  men  recoil  away 
And  isolate  pure  spirits,  and  permit 
A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  a  day. 
With   darkness  and   the  death-hour  rounding  it. 

XXIII 
Is  //  indeed  so?    If  I  lay  here  dead, 
Would'st   thou   miss   any   life   in   losing  mine? 
And  would  the  sun  for  thee  more  coldly  shine. 
Because  of  grave-damps  falling  round  my  head? 
I  marvelled,  my  Beloved,  when  I  read 
Thy  thought  so  in  the  letter.     I   am   thine-- 
But  .  .  so  much  to  thee?  Can  I  pour  thy  wine 
While  my  hands  tremble?     Then  my  soul,  instead 
Of  dreams  of  death,  resumes  life's  lower  range. 
Then,  love  me,  Love!     look  on  me  .  .  breathe  on  me 
As  brighter  ladies  do  not  count  it  strange. 
For  love,  to  give  up  acres  and  degree, 
I  yield  the  grave  for  thy  sake,  and  exchange 
My  near  sweet  view  of  Heaven,  for  earth  with  thee! 


^age  Fourteen 


ROl^ERT     BROWNING 


XXIV 
Let  the  world's  sharpness,  like  a  clasping  knife 
Shut  in  upon  itself  and  do  no  harm 
In  this  close  hand  of  Love,  now  soft  and  warm, 
And  let  us  hear  no  sound  of  human  strife 
After  the  click  of  the  shutting.     Life  to  life — 
I  lean  upon  thee.  Dear,  without  alarm. 
And  feel  as  safe  as  guarded  by  a  charm 
Against  the  stab  of  worldlings,  who  if  rife 
Are  weak   to   injure.     Very   whitely  still 
The  lilies  of  our  lives  may  reassure 
Their   blossoms   from   their   roots,   accessible 
Alone  to  heavenly  dews  that  drop  not  fewer; 
Growing  straight,  out  of  man's  reach,  on   the  hill. 
God  only,  who  made  us  rich,  can  make  us  poor. 

XXV 

A  HEAVY  heart,  Beloved,  have  I  borne 

From  year  to  year  until  I  saw  thy  face, 

And  sorrow  after  sorrow  took  the  place 

Of  all  those  natural  joys  as  lightly  worn 

As  the  stringed  pearls  .  .  each  lifted  in  its  turn 

By  a  beating  heart  at  dance-time.     Hopes  apace 

Were  changed  to  long  despairs,  till  God's  own  grace 

Could  scarcely  lift  above  the  world  forlorn 

My  heavy  heart.     Then  thou  didst  bid  me  bring 

And  let  it  drop  adown  thy  calmly  great 

Deep  being!     Fast  it  sinketh,   as  a  thing 

Which  its  own  nature  doth  precipitate. 

While  thine  doth  close  above  it,  mediating 

Betwixt  the  stars  and  the  unaccomplished  fate. 

XXVI 

I  LIVED  with  visions  for  my  company. 

Instead  of  men  and  women,  years  ago, 

And  found  them  gentle  mates,  nor  thought  to  know 

A  sweeter  music  than  they  played  to  me. 

But  soon  their  trailng  purple  was  not  free 

Of  this  world's  dust, — their  lutes  did  silent  grow, 

And  I  myself  grew  faint  and  blind  below 

Their  vanishing  eyes.  Then  thou  didst  come  ...  to  be. 

Beloved,  what  they  seemed.     Their  shining  fronts. 

Their  songs,  their  splendours,    (better,  yet  the  same. 

As  river-water  hallowed  into  fonts) 

IVIet  in  thee,  and  from  out  thee  overcame 

My  soul  with  satisfaction  of  all  wants — 

Because  God's  gifts  put  man's  best  dreams  to  shame. 


Page  Fifteen 


HOMAGE        TO 


XXVII 
My  own  Beloved,  who  hast  lifted  me 
From  this  drear  flat  of  earth  where  I  was  thrown, 
And,  in  betwixt  the  languid  ringlets,  blown 
A  life-breath,   till   the   forehead   hopefully 
Shines  out  again,  as  all  the  angels  see, 
Before  thy  saving  kiss!     My  own,  my  own, 
Who  earnest  to  me  when  the  world  was  gone, 
And  I  who  looked   for  only  God  found  thee! 
I  find  thee ;  I  am  safe,  and  strong,  and  glad. 
As  one  who  stands  in  dewless  asphodel, 
Looks  backward  on  the  tedious  time  he  had 
In  the  upper  life, — so  i,  with  bosom  swell. 
Make  witness,  here,  between  the  good  and  bad, 
That  Love,  as  strong  as  Death,   retrieves  as  well. 

XXVIII 

My  letters!  all  dead  paper,  .  .  mute  and  white! — 

And  yet  they  seem  alive  and  quivering 

Against  my  tremulous  hands  which  loose  the  string 

And  let  them  drop  down  on  my  knee  to-night. 

This  said,  .  .  he  wished  to  have  me  in  his  sight 

Once,  as  a  friend:  this  fixed  a  day  in  spring 

To  come  and  touch  my  hand  ...  a  simple  thing, 

Yet  I  wept  for  it! this,  .  .  the  paper's  light  .  . 

Said,  Dear,  I  love  thee;  and  I  sank  and  quailed 
As  if  God's  future  thundered  on  my  past. 
This  said,  /  am  thine — and  so  its  ink  has  paled 
With  lying  at  my  heart  that  beat  too  fast. 
And  this  .  .  .  O  Love,  thy  words  have  ill  availed, 
If  what  this  said,  I  dared  repeat  at  last! 

XXIX 

I  THINK  of  thee! — my  thoughts  do  twine  and  bud 

About  thee,  as  wild  vines,  about  a  tree. 

Put  out  broad  leaves,  and  soon  there's  nought  to  see 

Except  the  straggling  green  which  hides  the  wood. 

Yet,  O  my  palm-tree,  be  it  understood 

I  will  not  have  my  thoughts  instead  of  thee 

Who  art  dearer,  better!    Rather  instantly 

Renew  thy  presence.     As  a  strong  tree  should, 

Rustle  thy  boughs  and  set  thy  trunk  all  bare. 

And  let  these  bands  of  greenery  which  insphere  thee 

Drop  heavily  down,  .  .  burst,  shattered,  everywhere! 

Because,  in  this  deep  joy  to  see  and  hear  thee 

And  breathe  within  thy  shadow  a  new  air, 

I  do  not  think  of  thee —  I  am  too  near  thee. 


Page  Sixteen 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


XXX 

I  SEE  thine  image  through  my  tears  to-night, 
And  yet  to-day  I  saw  thee  smiling.     How- 
Refer  the  cause? — Beloved,  is  it  thou, 
Or  I  ?  who  makes  me  sad  ?     The  acolyte 
Amid  the  chanted  joy  and   thankful   rite. 
May  so  fall  flat,  with  pale  insensate  brow, 
On  the  altar-stair.     I  hear  thy  voice  and  vow 
Perplexed,  uncertain,  since  thou  art  out  of  sight, 
As  he,  in  his  swooning  ears,  the  choir's  amen. 
Beloved,  dost  thou  love?  or  did  I  see  all 
The  glory  as  I  dreamed,  and  fainted  when 
Too  vehement  light  dilated  my  ideal, 
For  my  soul's  eyes?     Will  that  light  come  again. 
As  now  these  tears  come  .  .  .  falling  hot  and  real? 

XXXI 
Thou  comest !  all  is  said  without  a  word. 
I  sit  beneath  thy  looks,  as  children  do 
In  the  noon-sun,  with  souls  that  tremble  through 
Their  happy  eyelids  from  an  unaverred 
Yet  prodigal  inward  joy.     Behold,  I  erred 
In  that  last  doubt!  and  yet  I  cannot  rue 
The  sin  most,  but  the  occasion  .  .  .  that  we  two 
Should  for  a  moment  stand  unministered 
By  a  mutual  presence.     Ah,  keep  near  and  close. 
Thou  dovelike  help!  and,  when  my  fears  would  rise, 
With  thy  broad  heart  serenely  interpose. 
Brood  down  with  thy  divine  sufficiencies 
These  thoughts  which  tremble  when  bereft  of  those 
Like  callow  birds  left  desert  to  the  skies. 

XXXII 

The  first  time  that  the  sun  rose  on  thine  oath 

To  love  me,  I  looked  forward  to  the  moon 

To  slacken  all  those  bonds  which  seemed  too  soon 

And  quickly  tied  to  make  a  lasting  troth. 

Quick-loving  hearts,   I  thought,  may  quickly  loathe; 

And,  looking  on  myself,   I  seemed   not  one 

For  such  man's  love! — more  like  an  out  of  tune 

Worn  viol,  a  good  singer  would  be  wroth 

To  spoil  his  song  with,  and  which,  snatched  in  haste 

Is  laid  down  at  the  first  ill-sounding  note. 

I  did  not  wrong  myself  so,  but  I  placed 

A  wrong  on  thee.     For  perfect  strains  may  float 

'Neath    master-hands,    from    instruments   defaced, — 

And  great  souls,  at  one  stroke,  may  do  and  doat. 

Page  Seventeen 


HOMAGE        TO 


XXXIII 

Yes,  call  me  by  my  pet  name!  let  me  hear 
The  name  I  used  to  run  at,  when  a  child, 
From  innocent  play,  and  leave  the  cowslips  piled, 
To  glance  up  in  some  face  that  proved  me  dear 
With  the  look  of  its  eyes.     I  miss  the  clear 
Fond  voices,  which,  being  drawn  and  reconciled 
Into  the  music  of   Heaven's  undefiled 
Call  me  no  longer.     Silence  on  the  bier. 
While  I  call  God  .  .  call  God! — So  let  thy  mouth 
Be  heir  to  those  who  are  now  exanimate. 
Gather  the  north  flowers  to  complete  the  south. 
And  catch  the  early  love  up  in  the  late. 
Yes,  call  me  by  that  name, — and  I,  in  truth, 
With  the  same  heart,  will  answer,  and  not  wait. 

XXXIV 

With  the  same  heart,  I  said,  I'll  answer  thee 

As  those,  when  thou  shalt  call  me  by  my  name — 

Lo,  the  vain  promise !  is  the  same,  the  same, 

Perplexed  and   ruffled   by  life's  strategy? 

When  called  before,   I   told  how  hastily 

I  dropped  my  flowers  or  break  off  from  a  game, 

To  run  and  answer  with  the  smile  that  came 

At  play  last  moment,  and  went  on  with  me 

Through   my  obedience.     When   I   answer  now, 

I  drop  a  grave  thought, — break  from  solitude ; — 

Yet  still  my  heart  goes  to  thee  .  .  .  ponder  how  .  . 

Not  as  to  a  single  good,  but  all  my  good ! 

Lay  thy  hand  on  it,  best  one,  and  allow 

That  no  child's  foot  could  run  fast  as  this  blood. 

XXXV 

If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 

And  be  all  to  me?     Shall  I  never  miss 

Home-talk  and   blessing  and   the  common   kiss 

That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it  strange. 

When  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  a  new  range 

Of  walls  and  floors  .  .  another  home  than  this? 

Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me  which  is 

Filled  by  dead  eyes  too  tender  to  know  change? 

That's  hardest.     If  to  conquer  love,  has  tried. 

To  conquer  grief,  tries  more  ...  as  all  things  prove; 

For  grief  indeed  is  love  and  grief  beside. 

Alas  I  have  grieved  so  I  am  hard  to  love. 

Yet  love  me — wilt  thou  ?     Open  thine  heart  wide, 

And  fold  within,  the  wet  wings  of  thy  dove. 


Page  Eighteen 


ROBERT     BROWNING 

XXXVI 
When  we  met  first  and  loved,  I  did  not  hiiild 
Upon  the  event  with  marble.     Could  it  mean 
To  last,  a  love  set  pendulous  between 
Sorrow  and  sorrow?     Nay,  I  rather  thrilled. 
Distrusting  every  light  that  seemed  to  gild 
The  onward  path,  and  feared  to  overlean 
A  finger  even.     And,  though  I  have  grown  serene 
And  strong  since  then,  I  think  that  God  has  willed 
A  still  renewable  fear  .  .  O  love,  O  troth  .  . 
Lest  these  enclasped  hands  should  never  hold. 
This  mutual  kiss  drop  down  between  us  both 
As  an  unowned  thing,  once  the  lips  being  cold. 
And  Love,  be  false!  if  he,,  to  keep  one  oath. 
Must  lose  one  joy,  by  his  life's  star  foretold. 

XXXVII 
Pardon,  oh,  pardon,  that  my  soul  should  make 
Of  all  that  strong  divineness  which  I  know 
For  thine  and  thee,  an  image  only  so 
Formed  of  the  sand,  and  fit  to  shift  and  break. 
It  is  that  distant  years  which  did  not  take 
Thy  sovranty,  recoiling  with  a  blow, 
Have  forced  my  swimming  brain  to  undergo 
Their  doubt  and  dread,  and  blindly  to  forsake 
Thy  purity  of  likeness  and  distort 
Thy  worthiest  love   to   a  worthless  counterfeit. 
As  if  a  shipwrecked  Pagan,  safe  in  port, 
His  guardian  sea-god  to  commemorate, 
Should  set  a  sculptured  porpoise,  gills  a-snort 
And  vibrant  tale,  within  the  temple-gate. 

XXXVIII 

First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 

The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I  write; 

And,   ever  since,  it  grew  more  clean  and  white,  .   . 

Slow  to  world-greetings  .  .  quick  with  its  'Oh,  list,' 

When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  amethyst 

I  could  not  wear  here,  plainer  to  my  sight, 

Than  that  first  kiss.     The  second  passed  in  height 

The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and  half  missed, 

Half  falling  on  the  hair.     O  beyond  meed! 

That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which  love's  own  crown. 

With  sanctifying  sweetness  did  precede. 

The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 

In  perfect,  purple  state;  since  when,  indeed, 

I  have  been  proud  and  said,  'My  love,  my  own.' 

Page  Nineteen 


HOMAGE        TO 


XXXIX 

Because  thou  hast  the  power  and  own'st  the  grace 
To  look  through  and  behind  this  mask  of  me, 
(Against  which  years  have  beat  thus  blanchingly 
With  their  rains,)  and  behold  my  soul's  true  face, 
The   dim   and   weary  witness  of   life's   race! — 
Because  thou  hast  the  faith  and  love  to  see, 
Through  that  same  soul's  distracting  lethargy, 
The  patient  angel  waiting  for  a  place 
In  the  new  Heavens! — because  nor  sin  nor  woe, 
Nor  God's  infliction,  nor  death's  neighbourhood. 
Nor  all  which  others  viewing,   turn  to  go,   .   . 
Nor  all  which  makes  me  tired  of  all,  self-viewed,  . 
Nothing  repels  thee,  .  .  Dearest,  teach  me  so 
To  pour  out  gratitude,  as  thou  dost,  good. 

XL 

Oh  yes!  they  love  through  all  this  world  of  ours! 

I  will  not  gainsay  love,  called  love  forsooth. 

I  have  heard  love  talked  in  my  early  youth, 

And  since,  not  so  long  back  but  that  the  flowers 

Then    gathered,    smell    still.      Mussulmans    and    Giaours 

Throw  kerchiefs  at  a  smile,  and  have  no  ruth 

For  any  weeping.     Polypheme's  white  tooth 

Slips  on  the  nut,  if,  after  frequent  showers, 

The  shell  is  over-smooth, — and  not  so  much 

Will  turn  the  thing  called  love,  aside  to  hate, 

Or  else  to  oblivion.     But  thou  art  not  such 

A  lover,  my  Belove!  thou  canst  wait 

Through  sorrow  and  sickness,  to  bring  souls  to  touch, 

And  think  it  soon  when  others  cry,  'Too  late!' 

XLI 

I  THANK  all  who  have  loved  me  in  their  hearts. 

With  thanks  and  love  from  mine.     Deep  thanks  to   all 

Who  paused  a  little  near  the  prison-wall, 

To  hear  my  music  in  its  louder  parts, 

Ere  they  went  onward,  each  one  to  the  mart's 

Or  temple's  occupation,  beyond  call. 

But  thou,  who,  in  my  voice's  sink  and  fall. 

When  the  sob  took  it,  thy  divinest  Art's 

Own  instrument  didst  drop  down  at  thy  foot, 

To  hearken  what  I  said  between  my  tears,  .  . 

Instruct  me  how  to  thank  thee! — Oh,  to  shoot 

My  soul's  full  meaning  into  future  years, 

That  they  should  lend  it  utterance,  and  salute 

Love  that  endures,  from  Life  that  disappears! 

Page  Twenty 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


XLII 
'My  future  icill  not  copy  fair  my  past' — 
I  wrote  that  once;  and  thinking  at  my  side 
My  ministering  life-angel  justified 
The  word  by  his  appealing  look  upcast 
To  the  white  throne  of  God,  I  turned  at  last, 
And   there,   instead,   saw   thee,   not   unallied 
To  angels  in  thy  soul ! — Then  I,  long  tried 
By  natural  ills,  received  the  comfort  fast, 
While  budding,  at  thy  sight,  my  pilgrim's  staff 
Gave  out  green  leaves  with  morning  dews  impearled. 
I  seek  no  copy  now  of  life's  first  half: 
Leave  here  the  pages  with  long  musing  curled. 
And  write  mc  new  my  future's  epigraph. 
New  angel  mine,  unhoped  for  in  the  world ! 

XLIII 

How  do  I  love  thee?    Let  me  count  the  ways. 

I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 

My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 

For  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 

I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  everyday's 

Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 

I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right; 

I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 

I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 

With  my  lost  saints — I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 

Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life! — and,  if  God  choose, 

I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death, 

XLIV 

Beloved,  thou  hast  brought  me  many  flowers 

Plucked  in  the  garden,  all  the  summer  through 

And  winter,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  grew 

In  this  close  room,  nor  missed  the  sun  and  showers. 

So,  in  the  like  name  of  that  love  of  ours. 

Take  back  these  thoughts  which  here  unfolded  too. 

And  which  on  warm  and  cold  days  I  withdrew 

From  my  heart's  ground.     Indeed,  those  beds  and  bowers 

Be  overgrown  with  bitter  weeds  and  rue, 

And  wait  thy  weeding:  yet  here's  eglantine, 

Here's  ivy! — take  them,  as  I  used  to  do 

Thy  flowers,  and  keep  them  where  they  shall  not  pine. 

Instruct  thine  eyes  to  keep  their  colours  true, 

And  tell  thy  soul,  their  roots  are  left  in  mine. 

Page   Twenty-one 


HOMAGE        TO 


Shall  cast  his  shadow  among  men ;  and  soon 

No  lingering  friend  to  care,  nor  old  contemporary. — 

He^  I  mean,  whom  once  they  pointed  at 

In   Rome  and   Florence:  poet-putterer 

Among  old  pictures, 

Uncouth  utterer 

Of  obscure  strictures, 

Styleless  stutterer 

f  Quoth  his  critics, 

Itching  with   their  own   enclitics), — 

Paracelsus ! — how  he  sat 

In  chilblain  halls,  Del  Sarto-dippy, 

Robbia-mad,  or  Lippo  Lippi, — 

Like  some  mage  of  alchemy, 

Grinding,  in  his  cracked-brain  crucible, 

Tortuous   rhymes   from   radiant  Titians 

Delving  for  the  thence-deducible 

Dialogue  soliloquy: 

Not  to  mention  those  musicians! 

Through   the  dilettantes'   drawl 

At  the  Countess'  musicale, 

What  surmise  you,  English  ogler. 

Of  visions  dreamed  by  old  Abt  Vogler, 

When  you  stare   (nor  note  his  frowning. 

Conscious  of  your  own  silk  gowning) 

And  pour  at  tea  for  Mr,  Browning? 

Dust  to  dust :  the  large,  the  little. 

Ashes  both !    Who  cares  a  tittle, 

At  the  teas  of  Goethe,   Horace, 

Who  wore  satin,  or  who  wore  lace? 

Ashes  all!  even  such  as — Wait! 

What  of  him — even  him,  the  speaker. 

Whose  spirit,  invoked,  comes  muffled  through  this 
weaker 

Organ  of  an  alien  poet, 

Pale,  yet  not  all  impassionate, 

Sounding  subconscious  chords,  that  flood  and  over- 
flow it, — 

Of  him,  rny  spirit,  Rabbi, — ^what  of  him, 

My  poising  soul?    Ah,  since  I  died 

How  has  this  soul  of  mine  been  multiplied 

By  minds  made  pregnant  with  that  seraph's  fire, 

Whose  touch  conceptual  made  aspire 

Mine  own  from  all  the  ages! 

Wherefore  I  deem — 


Page  Thirty-two 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


No  individual  ghost, 

Moored  on  some  drifting:  coast, 

Yearnino;  from  out  the  dark   for  daylight  lost, 

For  youth's  wild  torch, 

Wind-blown  with  joyous  rages, 

Hope's  lifted  latch  and  laughter  in  the  porch, — 

Not  even  now 

For  dear  exchange  of  love's  undying  vow 

With  her  that  was  the  Aurora  of  my  life, 

My  freed  soul  longs.     For  I,  that  lived,  grew  old 

And  died,  am  born  again  in  beings  manifold, 

By  grace  of  that  which,  once  expressed, 

Bequeaths  to  them  the  beautiful,  the  best. 

That  bloomed  of  me ; 

Whereby   immortally 

Their  passions  now  partake 

Of  mine,  of  mine  their  raptures,  their  far  wonder-quest. 

So.  in  the  spirits  I  pass  through. 
Still  I  create  my  own  anew, 
Broadened   in  scope;  still   I   awake 
Refreshed,   in   world-awakened   eyes 
Of  all  whom  mine  with  thought  imbue ; 
Still  in  my  critics  criticise, 
Till,  stretching  the  thralled  spirit's  cramp, 
My  art  becomes  an  Arabian  lamp 
That,    touched, — behold    the   genie   rise! 
Who  bows  his  blazing  form,   and  cries: 
"Of  all  my  Master's  wealth — the  true, 
The  beautiful,  the  strong,  the  wise — 
Mortal,  what  may  his  servant  bring?" 

Hist,  Rabbi! — What  bird's  that? — I  smell  the  spring. 
Soft! — Could  it  be  my  silk-girl  caroling? 

Never  alone, 

Lover  of  joy. 

Delicate  scorner 

Of  death  and  his  dances, 

Whether  you  be 

Girl  or  boy. 

Rapturous  mourner 

Of  life  and  her  fancies. 

Never  may  you,  never  alone. 


Page  Thirty-three 


HOMAGE        TO 


Across  the  Dark  didst  flash  the  Light 
Back  to  its  primal  Fount  above, 
Nor  dream  the  Nothingness  of  Night 
Could  e'er  bring  forth  the  wings  of  Love, 

Or  close  them !    Speak  to  us,  passionate  soul 
Crowned  with  rich  grief,  most  strong,  most  wise, 
Still  point  our  weakness  to  the  goal 
That  glorified  thy  constant  eyes. 

No  facile  flatterers  of  the  hour 
Dare  mock  the  splendour  of  thy  full  hope. 
Whose  mail-clad  words  in  rugged  power. 
Marched  up,   not  down  the  Avernian  slope. 

No  shallow  hearts  dare  find  thy  faith 
Shallow!     Deep,   deeper  than  the  sea. 
Abides  the  Love  that  stormed  through  Death, 
And  laid  hold  on  Eternity. 


Published  with  author  s  permission. 


GREATHEART 

{To  Robert  Browning) 

By  Amelia  Josephine  Burr 

Lover  of  earth,  great-hearted  son  of  joy, 
His  the  transcendent  fulness  of  delight 
Because  life's  cup, — too  bitter-sweet  to  cloy, 
Can  yield  no  dregs  to  him  who  drinks  aright. 
Let  Beauty  veil  her  strangely  as  she  would. 
To  his  clear  eyes,  Love  glowed  in  everything. 
And  since  the  heart  of  man  he  understood. 
While  men  have  hearts,  he  will  not  cease  to  sing. 


'Life  and  Living"   George  H.   Doran    Company;   pub- 
lished with  permission. 


Page  Twenty-four 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 
By  Witter  Bynner 

To  tell  the  truth  about  you,  Robert  Browning, 
I  bring  no  wreath  of  laurel  to  your  crowning 
Save  this:  that  no  one  who  has  loved — can  doubt  you, 
Robert  Browning. 

An  amateur  of  melody  and  hue. 

Of  marble  outline  and  of  Italy, 

Of  heresies  and   individuals 

And  every  eccentricity  of  truth ; 

And  yet  an  Englishman,  a  healthy  brute 

Loving  old  England,  thrushes  and  the  dawn; 

A  scholar  loving  polite  gentleman ; 

A  man  of  fashion  loving  the  universe; 

A  connoisseur  loving  dead   artists'  lives. 

Their  names,  their  labors  and  their  enemies; 

A  poet  loving  all  the  ways  of  words; 

A  human  being  giving  love  as  love, 

Denying  death   and   proving  happiness; — 

When  you  love  women,  because  youth  loves  women, 

And  when  you  love  a  woman,  because  heart 

Understands  heart  through  more  than  youth  or  age 

Or  time,  and  when  you  marvellously  become 

The  man  whom  Carlyle  and  whom  Landor  love — 

You  are  life's  poet  by  a  poet's  life,  .  .  . 

But  when  you  set  yourself  about  with  words. 

Abracadabra,  bric-a-brac  and  the  dust 

Of  piled  confusion,  toying  with  obsolete 

Prescriptions,  and  with  owlish  lenses  hide 

Your  eyes  until  you  marvellously  become 

A  ponderous,  pondering  apothecary — 

You  dispense  remedies,  but  not  to  me! 

Let  me  take  down  your  bulky  book  of  records. 

And  find  those  certain  pages  where  you  tell 

The  beauty  of  a  shoulder  or  reveal 

The  pure  and  simple  permanence  of  love! 

It  is  enough  to  learn,  by  a  lazy  glance 

Through  other  passages,  how  you  conserve 

The  true  susceptibility  and  pathos 

Of  bishops,  mediums  and   murderers. 

Page    Twenty -five 


HOMAGE        TO 


Manage  the  rhythm  of  fantastic  souls, 

Mark  in  the  fault  something  to  profit  by: 

Challenge    the   far    perfection    resident 

In  imperfection's  opportunity, 

And — more   magnanimous   than   most   of   us — 

Finding  yourself  in  all  humanity, 

Forgive  humanity  for  what  you  find. 

You  see,  I  know  your  text  and  care  for  it! 

And  though  I  will  not  hunt  for  it  through  all 

Your  dark  old  corners,  I  shall  wait  outside 

And  watch  you  through  the  windows  and  admire 

The  amazing  industry  with  which  you  piece 

Your  manuscripts  together  to  maintain 

And  to  corroborate  with  many  proofs 

Your  cheerful  confidence  in  any  man. 

— Who  would  has  heard  me  rank  you,  Robert  Browning. 
I  bring  no  wreath  of  laurel  to  your  crowning 
Save  this:  that  for  your  confidence — I  thank  you, 
Robert  Browning. 


Published   with   author's  permission. 


BROWNING 

By  Richard  Burton 

Love  that  is  triumph,  music  that  leaps; 
Glad  on  the  heights,  unabashed  in  the  deeps; 
Valiant  and  splendid,  great  righter  of  wrong. 
Hail  to  the  militant  hero  of  Song! 


From   Boston  Broivning  Society    1909-191O,   p.    18;  pub- 
lished with   permission  of  the  Society  and  the^  author. 


Page   Twenty-six 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


IN   PRAISE  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING 

{On  His  Centenary) 

By  Cale  Young  Rice 

Away  with  trivial  bays, 

With  wreaths  and   dithyrambs, 

Upon  this  day  of  a  myriad  days 

When  a  great  heart  came  to  walk  earth's  ways 

And  sing  it  free  of  shams. 

To  sing  it  free  of  the  pale  complaint 

Of  souls  that  will  not  climb; 

And  free  of  the  petty  coward  taint 

Of  the  cavillers  at  Time. 

To  gaze  so  clearly  far 

Into  its  mystic  clod 

As  to  be  sure  it  is  a  star 

Tilled  by  the  touch  of  God ! 

From  "Wraiths  and  Realities''  ivith  permission  of  author 
and  of  the  Publisher. 

THE  TWO  NIGHTINGALES 

(Of  the  boy  Browning,  May,   1826) 
By  Arthur  Upson 

'Twas  in  an  English  garden  I  heard  tell 
How,  in  the  odorous  early  Spring  one  day. 
Book-laden,  the  boy's  mother  bore  away 
Homeward  from  town  to  him  the  potent  spell 
Of  Shelley's  airy  verses;  how  it  fell, 
By  chance,  with  them  fair  other  poems  lay — 
Those  of  one  Keats;  how  thus  the  marvellous  May 
Broke  on  the  dreaming  boy  of  Camberwell 
With  new  ecstatic  music;  and,  that  night. 
As  down  his  father's  garden  the  lad  strolled 
Where  fresh  laburnums  rained   their  pallid  gold 
Beneath  the  moon,  how,  sharing  his  delight. 
Like  spirits  from  out  far,  ringing  Doric  dales, 
There  sang  to  him  two  tranced  nightingales! 

London,  May,   1907. 

Published  icith   permission   of  Boston   Broivning  Society 
and  of  Mrs.  Arthur  Upson. 

Page  Twenty-seven 


HOMAGE        TO 


BROWNING  TO  BEN  EZRA 
A  Centenary  Soliloquy 
By  Percy  MacKaye 

I 

A  hundred  years! — Hardly  I   understand: 

Unriddle  it,  Rabbi.     Through  the  Abbey  stones 

Hearken — the  hushed  and  reverent  monotones, 

The  shuffled  feet,  that  pause!     "Here  lie  his  bones, 

Who  passed  away 

From  earth,  perhaps  to  heaven. 

Aged  seventy-seven  ; 

Born  on  this  self-same  day, 

The  seventh  May, 

A  century  gone." — Look,  Rabbi!     In  my  hand 

I  hold  this  little  watch  they  call  their  world, 

Open  it  with  my  thumb,  where  lo!  each  cog, 

Each  golden  wheel,  on  star-gemmed  axis  whirled, 

Pulses  with  delicate  action. — Pray  you,  jog 

My  laggard  mind  once  more. — They  state,  you  say, 

This  was  my  timepiece ;  on  this  crystal  face 

I'd  pore,  and  through  dim  introspections  trace 

The  portent  of  the  tickings  underneath, 

The  mainspring  of  the  action.     May  be  so. 

For  you  should  know,  Ben  Ezra.     All  I  know 

Is,  that  the  ticks  grew  fainter,  as  it  slipped 

Under  my  pillow.     Then  I  fell  asleep. 

And  have  been  busy  dreaming.     That  was  death. 

They  say, — death.     Sudden  the  quick  hair-spring  skipped 

A  turn,   trembled,  and  stopped  short. — Much  too  deep 

For  me! — Somehow  I   don't  conceive  the  soul 

Like  to  a  watch  unwound.     Yet  now,  they  say, 

I  am  a  poet  who  has  passed  away. 

With  many  common  millions,  to  a  goal 

Unkenned. — Here's  Limbo,   then ;  and  I,  a  shade, 

Soliloquize  now,  in  this  cloistral  corner. 

Among  pale   forms  of  other  ghosts   forlorner. 

With  you,  Ben  Ezra,  whom  alive  I  made 

The  Rabbi  of  my  rhyme. — A  quaint  conceit! 

Suppose  we  grant  it.     So,  then!     Let  us  sit 

On  dust  of  kings  and  make  a  rhyme  of  it 

Together — one  dead  poet  and  one  rabbi 

Conceived  and  born  of  him.     While  you  keep  tab,  I 


Page  Twenty-eight 


HOMAGE        TO 


Will  muse  the  elegy,  and  score  our  text: 
R.  BroiL'ning  to  Ben  Ezra;  adding  next: 
Suggested  by  the  former  s  centenary, 
And  after  that — lest  precious  ears  be  vext- 

Apologies  for  defunct  vocabulary. 


II 

The  question  I  would  stress,  then — pray  allow — 
Is  this:    To  pass  away,  is  it  to  cease? 
But  if  so,  hou'  to  cease?    I  said  just  now 
That,  since  my  pillow  muffled  this  timepiece, 
I  have  been  busy  dreaming.     Ha,  those  dreams! 
In  what  frail  shallops,  what  austere  triremes, 
Unchartered  cruisers,  barks  adventuresome, 
I  have  put  forth  on  unimagined  seas, 
And  sailed — with  what  courageous  companies! 
Nay,  on  no  phantom  ships!     No  guest  needs  fear 
A  skinny-handed  ancient  mariner 
In  me.     I  entertain  with  dice  of  doom 
No  spectral  crews.     My  fellow-voyagers  were — 
And   are,  and  shall   be  still — rich-blooded   men, 
Rare-hearted  women,  lovers  of  this  life 
And  wrestlers  with  it,   reckless  of  the  strain. 
My  visionary  barks,  those  be  my  books, 
And  I,  whose  bones  consort  here  with  the  spooks, 
Am  admiral  there  of  dreamy  argosies 
That  ply  'twixt  earth  and  heaven  their  perilous  merchan- 
dise. 

Perilous,  yes;  for  dreams  are  perilous  craft 

When  they  be  manned  by  fierce  doubts,  fore  and  aft. 

Whose  mutinous  foreheads  scan  the  heaven  for  signs, 

And  menace  their  commander:    "You,   who  planned 

Our  questing  voyage,  show  us  the  land — your  land 

Of  God,  His  promise!     All  the  lone  sea-lines 

Are  dim  with  setting  stars  and  stark  with  death; 

Yet  you,  who  hold  the  rudder,  answer   Faith! 

And,  once  more,  only  Faith!"     Thus  curse  my  crews! 

I  share  their  hearts,  but  overmaster  them, 

And  hold  the  rudder  straight; 

Till  now — a  star  above  each  plumed  stem — 

Lo,  where  my  galleons,  guided  by  their  Muse, 

The  surging  planet  circumnavigate — 

Page    Twenty-nine 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


Doubt  kindling  nobler  doubt,  faith  quelling  faith, 

Forms  flung  to  revolution,  creeds  to  rack. 

Old  cities  of  dead  empires  put  to  sack, 

Love  founding  lordlier  kingdoms   in   the   future's  track! 

So,   Rabbi,   to  our  question,   if  you  please: 

Is  sailing  thus — to  cease? 

The  ghosts  demur; 

For,   in  the  nudging  vault,  I  hear  one  say: 

"Browning,  the  poet,  who  has  passed  away, 

This  is  his  sepulcher." 


Ill 
Once  a  dawn-shaft  from  God's  quiver 
Struck  my  soul,  and  from  its  embers 
Flashed  a  star  of  song  forever. 
Then  the  dawn  passed.     Who  remembers? 
Not   remember    Pippa? — Pippa   who,    at   sun-up. 
Rose  in  her  bare  attic,  while  the  east  boiled  gold! 
With  her  rising,  see,  the  morning  roses  run  up 
Clambering  live  and  warm,  concealing  the  night-mold. 

Pippa,  she  who  sang  till  little  Asolo 
Widened  out  its  walls — like  arms,  that  reach  in  pity 
To  nestle  lonely  things  that  yearn  for  love — till,  lo; 
Vines  of  Asolo  enwall   the  heavenly  city! 

Pippa,  she  was  Luigi,  Ottima  was  Pippa, 
Mighty  Monsignor,  chafer,  bee,  and  weevil ; 
Life  redeemed  from  listlessness,  innocence  from  evil, 
Like  the  cinder-girl  that  wore  the  crystal  slipper. 

Well,  well,  Rabbi,  so 

Now,  as  long  ago, 

Even  thoughts  of  Pippa 

Lilt  another  music,  breathe  an  afterglow. 

What,  then!    Will  they  say 

She,  that  passed  in  song,  she,  too  has  passed  away? 

Trust  me:  as  I  used  to  sit  and  ponder. 

Songs,  songs,  songs  she  sang  me,  winged  of  wonder. 

Flitting  sunward,  till  they  quite  forsook — 

Like  happy  birds  from  open  cages — 

My  black-barred  pages. 

Page  Thirty 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


But  shyly  three  and  four,  with  slantwise  wing, 

Dartled   from   heaven  back,   and   hovering 

Around   my  head, 

Sung  my  dear  earth  instead, 

Then  nested  down,  beaks  spilling,  in  my  book, 

Splashing   its   margin   with   God's   meadow-dew. — 

How  cage  and  heart  clapped  to! 

When  lo,  all  lamely,  came  a  scant-winged  few 

That   fluttered,  just  outside  the  closing  covers. 

Too  late  to  slip  between,  and  lingered  nigh. 

Teasing  with   matin-tunes   the   twilit   memory. 

Listen!    There  pipes  one,  now!    Hark,  while  it  hovers! 

On   passion's   flower 
I  poised  for  an  hour, 
A  little  hour  long. 
Ere  I  passed  in  song. 

Stay!  cried  my  lover 

Forsaken:  Faded 

Are  love's  endeavor 

And  all  that  made  it! 

Dead — dead! 

But   far  overhead 

Where  faint  stars  hung. 

And  low  o'er  the  grass 

By  the  eddying  river, 

Where  poising  moon-moths  flickered 

and  swung, 
I  called  to  my  lover 
Over  and  over: 

/  poise,  I  poise,  I  poise  forever. 
Because  I  pass. 

IV 

To  poise — to  pass  away! 

Rabbi,  beyond  the  high  groins,  rose  and  gray. 

Dimmed   b}-  the   Minster's  adumbrated   day. 

How,  browed  in  silence,  broods  my  centenary. 

In  silence,   bred  of  dust 

And   the  dank  charnel's  must, 

That  wraps  these  bones!    Yes,  he  is  passed  away 

Forever  more;  nor  London's  warping  mist, 

Nor  Italy's  keen  amethyst. 


Page    Thirty-one 


HOMAGE        TO 


Shall  cast  his  shadow  among  men ;  and  soon 

No  lingering  friend  to  care,  nor  old  contemporary. — 

He^  I  mean,  whom  once  they  pointed  at 

In   Rome  and   Florence:   poet-putterer 

Among  old  pictures, 

Uncouth  utterer 

Of  obscure  strictures, 

Styleless  stutterer 

(Quoth  his  critics. 

Itching  with  their  own  enclitics) , — 

Paracelsus! — how  he  sat 

In  chilblain  halls,  Del  Sarto-dippy, 

Robbia-mad,  or  Lippo  Lippi, — 

Like  some  mage  of  alchemy. 

Grinding,  in  his  cracked-brain  crucible, 

Tortuous   rhymes   from   radiant   Titians 

Delving  for  the  thence-deducible 

Dialogue  soliloquy: 

Not  to  mention  those  musicians! 

Through  the  dilettantes'   drawl 

At  the  Countess'  musicale, 

What  surmise  you,  English  ogler, 

Of  visions  dreamed  by  old  Abt  Vogler, 

When  you  stare   (nor  note  his  frowning. 

Conscious  of  your  own  silk  gowning) 

And  pour  at  tea  for  Mr.  Browning? 

Dust  to  dust:  the  large,  the  little. 

Ashes  both!    Who  cares  a  tittle. 

At  the  teas  of  Goethe,   Horace, 

Who  wore  satin,  or  who  wore  lace? 

Ashes  all !  even  such  as — Wait  1 

What  of  Jiim — even  him,  the  speaker, 

Whose  spirit,   invoked,  comes  muffled   through   this 

weaker 
Organ  of  an  alien  poet. 
Pale,  yet  not  all  impassionate, 

Sounding  subconscious  chords,  that  flood  and  over- 
flow it, — 
Of  him,  my  spirit.  Rabbi, — what  of  him. 
My  poising  soul?    Ah,  since  I  died 
How  has  this  soul  of  mine  been  multiplied 
By  minds  made  pregnant  with  that  seraph's  fire, 
Whose  touch  conceptual  made  aspire 
Mine  own  from  all  the  ages! 
Wherefore  I  deem — 


Page  Thirty-two 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


No  fnrlividual  ghost, 

IMoorcd   on   some  drifting  coast, 

Yearning  from  out  the  dark   for  daylight  lost, 

For  youth's  wild  torch. 

Wind-blown  with  joyous  rages, 

Hope's  lifted  latch  and  laughter  in  the  porch, — 

Not  even  now 

For  dear  exchange  of  love's  undying  vow 

With  her  that  was  the  Aurora  of  my  life, 

My  freed  soul  longs.     For  I,  that  lived,  grew  old 

And   died,  am  born   again  in  beings  manifold. 

By  grace  of  that  which,  once  expressed, 

Bequeaths  to  them  the  beautiful,  the  best. 

That  bloomed  of  me; 

Whereby   immortally 

Their  passions  now  partake 

Of  mine,  of  mine  their  raptures,  their  far  wonder-quest. 

So,  in  the  spirits  I  pass  through, 
Still   I  create  my  own  anew. 
Broadened   in  scope;  still   I   awake 
Refreshed,   in   world-awakened   eyes 
Of  all  whom  mine  with  thought  imbue; 
Still  in  my  critics  criticise. 
Till,  stretching  the  thralled  spirit's  cramp. 
My  art  becomes  an  Arabian  lamp 
That,    touched, — behold    the   genie   rise! 
Who  bows  his  blazing  form,   and  cries: 
"Of  all  my  Master's  wealth — the  true. 
The  beautiful,  the  strong,  the  wise — 
Mortal,  what  may  his  servant  bring?" 

Hist,  Rabbi! — What  bird's  that? — I  smell  the  spring. 
Soft! — Could  it  be  my  silk-girl  caroling? 

Never  alone, 

Lover  of  joy. 

Delicate  scorner 

Of  death  and  his  dances. 

Whether  you  be 

Girl  or  boy. 

Rapturous  mourner 

Of  life  and  her  fancies, 

Never  may  you,  never  alone. 


Page  Thirty-three 


HOMAGE        TO 


Utter  your  ecstasy, 
Make  j'our  moan. 

Garland   your  hair; 
Wind,  come  unwind   it! 
Hide  away  care; 
Kind  heart,  come  find   it! 

Winter,  you  gnome, 
Shrunken  and  shrilly. 
Shut  Love  in  her  tomb; 
Tut! — willy,  nilly, 
Love  through  the  loam 
Unlocks  with  a  lily! 

Starlight  or  stone. 
Nothing's  its  own! 


Fluent  through  all  flows  all,  as  the  Greek  saith: 

The  drowned  stone  ripples  the  starlight,   even  as  death 

The  living  waters, 

With  widening  discs  of  light.     No  sparrow  falls 

But    gray-stoled    choirs    revive   his   matinals 

With  incense  fresh  of  dawn. — You,  Rabbi,  friend, 

Soul-fellow,  busy  with  me  to  the  end, 

Crunching  with  poet-pestles  and  rhyme-mortars 

Conundrums  for  the  mind  to  apprehend, 

T^ear  witness  with  me  to  this  paradox: 

What's  permanent  must  pass.    All  spirit-shocks, 

Numbness  and   pain,   arise 

Conceiving   otherwise. 

For  Beauty  is  the  flowing  of  the  soul 

Without  impediment,  the  effect  being  joy; 

So  with  a  ripple  may  reveal  her  whole 

Eternal  ocean.     But  the  child  says:  "_See!_ 

My  earth  is  stable;  sun  and  stars  spin  wild." 

Not  so  the  man:     "Our  earth  spins  dizzily 

Round  the  fixed  sun."     The  poet   (man  and  child) 

Peers  in  the  sun,  imagining  he  sees— 

Beyond  his  face — the  shadowy  vortices. 

Vast  suctions  and  compulsions  of  the  soul. 

"Beyond  the  sun,"  he  sings,  "beyond— our  goal 

Is  God!"    Last  pries  the  seer:     "Him  whom  so  far 

Page  Thirty-f(^ur 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


Ye  seek,  yourselves  consider  what  you  are 

And   find    Mim:  stars  aspiring  to  be, 

\,'\{c  from  itself  cvolvinp;  soul — such   He! 

Time's  runner,  not  Time's  stake;  Spring's  sap,  not  sod 

Alan's  orbit,  not  his  planet — such  is  God." 

Vouch,  then,  Ben  Ezra,  through  the  texts  we  glo/.ed 

Of  earth's  philosophies,   I  still  opposed 

The  fixed,  immutable.     To  slake  his  thirst, 

You  said,  there  lives  our  soul's  utility — 

His  thirst  imquenchablc,  for  Whom  also  she, 

My  silk-girl,  sang:      There  is  no  last  ?ior  first! 

Therefore  through  all 

The  chambers  of  His  spirit,  as  I  passed 

In  changing  roles — to  lift  the  dim  tent-flap 

(As  David)  and  behold  where  hung  huge  Saul, 

Supine, 

Gigantic,   serpentine. 

From  the  cross-beam ;  or,  through  the  black  storm-gap, 

Panting  beneath  a  woman's  hair 

(As  Sebald),  to  watch — now  here,  now  there — 

Blind  lightnings  stab  the  dark;  thence  to  unfold 

I^cfore  the  quiet  eyes  of  Cleon 

His  epos  on  its  burning  plates  of  gold; 

Else  watch,  in   Spring  of  another  eon 

(Curled  like  the  finger  of  an  infant  faun). 

The  prying  crocus  crimson  through  the  lawn, 

Idling,  without  other  care, 

In   England,  when  my  April's  there; — 

Still  it  was  mine,  and  is,  in  dreams 

To  search  beyond  the  world   that  seems, 

And  flash  before  my  fellow-men, 

Kindling  His  image  to  their  ken, 

Glimpses  of  that  God-man,  who  wills  yet  to  become. 

Ever  for  Whom, 

In  future  as  in  past. 

There  is  nor  first  nor  last. 

VI 

But  hark!    Above  our  vault. 

Rabbi,  the  footsteps  halt, 

The  organ  rolls  the  chant  processionaiy. 

Relinquish  here  this  dust; 

Accomplish   there  Time's  trust; 

Ascend  with  me  beyond   this  centenar5\ 


Page    Thirty-five 


HOMAGE       TO 


Go  forth,  for  we  are  young! 

Time's  song  is  yet  unsung; 

Let  our  glad  voices  mingle  with  God's  mass. 

You,  Rabbi,  on  my  right, 

Before  us  both — His  light: 

Through  men's  dear  world,  with  PIppa,  still  I  pass! 

Published  ivith  author's  permission. 


IMAGINATION 

{Written  for  the  Occasion) 
By  Edwin  Markham 

Blithe  Fancy  lightly  builds  with  airy  hands 
Or  on  the  edges  of  the  darkness  peers. 

Breathless  and  frightened  at  the  Voice  she  hears: 

Imagination   (lo!  the  sky  expands) 

Travels  the  blue  arch  and  Cimmerian  sands — 
Homeless  on  earth,  the  pilgrim  of  the  spheres, 
The  rush  of  light  before  the  hurrying  years. 

The  voice  that  cries  in  unfamiliar  lands. 

Men  weigh  the  moons  that  flood  with  eerie  light 
The  dusky  vales  of  Saturn — wood  and  stream; 
But  who  shall  follow  on  the  awful  sweep 
Of  Neptune  through  the  dim  and  dreadful  deep? 
Onward  he  wanders  in  the  unknown  night. 
And  we  are  shadows  moving  in  a  dream. 

From  New  York  Brotvning  Society,  1912,  p.  3;  published 
tuith  permission   of  Society  and  the  author. 


Page  Thirty-six 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


THE  YEAR'S  AT  THE  SPRING 

By  Sara  Teasdale 

{For  R.  B.'s  Anniversary) 
I  said,  "I  shall  weave  my  poet 
A  song  of  shining  words" — 
But  thro'  the  open  window 
I   heard  the  call  of  birds. 

They  said,  "He  wants  no  praising 
From  those  who  stay  indoors  ; 
Come  into  the  house  with  walls  of  air 
And  grass  upon  the  floors." 

I  followed  the  grey  birds'  calling 
To  a  shimmering  poplar  tree 
That  shook  in  the  silver  sunlight 
The  leaves  that  spring  set  free. 

I  thought  I  should  sing  in  its  shadow, 
For  the  leaves  were  half   unfurled, 
But  the  wind  went  by  me  laughing, 
Bound  for  the  rim  of  the  world. 

It  said,  "He  wants  no  praising 
Of  dreamers  by  a  tree; 
Come  follow,  for  I  climb  at  last 
-  The  hills  that  hide  the  sea." 

"And   if  in   far  sea-faring 
Your  praise  should  still  be  mute. 
The  wordless  song  your  heart  will  sing 
Is  more  than  a  well-tuned  lute." 

"They  praise  him  best  who  follow 
In  starlight  or  in  rain 
The  winding  ways  of  wind  and  men 
That  turn  not  back  again." 

Published  ivith  permission  of  the  author  and  of  the 
Boston  Transcript. 


Page  Thirty-seven 


HOMAGE        TO 


INVOCATION 

Robert  Browning  7  May,   19 12 

By  Percy  Mackaye 

I 

Poet  of  the  vast  potential, 
Curious-minded,    quintessential 
Prober  of  passion,   ample-hearted 
Lover  of  lovers,  virile-arted 
Robert   Browning,  plotter  of  plays, 
Leaven  us  in  these  latter  days! 

Now  in  rebirth, 
Reneiving  Time's  festa 
Spring — the  wild  quester — 
Quickens  the  earth. 

II 
Not  mere  being,  but  becoming 
Makes  us  vital,     Stript  from  numbing 
Vestiture  of  self-complacence 
Naked  for  our  soul's  renascence, 
Robert   Browning,   riddler  of   hearts. 
Pierce  us  with  your  singing  darts! 

Sharp   through    the  sod, 
Floiver-tipped   for   His    aiming. 
Shoot   now   the   flaming 
Spear-heads  of  God. 

Ill 

Not  our  prayer-stool,  but  our  passion 
Makes  us  holy.     Thus  to  fashion 
Psalm  and  Credo  to  a  human 
Ritual  of  Man  and  Woman, 
Robert   Browning,   purger  of  souls. 
Heap  on  us  your  passion-coals! 

So  let  aspire — 

As  now  this  young  season — 

Spirit  and  reason 

In  flower  and  fire! 

Published  with   author's  permission. 

Page  Thirty-eight 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


AN  INVOCATION 

{On  the  One  Hundredth  Anniversary  of  the  Birth  of 
Robert  Broivning) 

By  Francis  Medhurst 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra — thou,  whose  valiant  spirit 
Hath  plumbed  the  riddle  of  the  rolling  spheres, 
Who,  far  aloof  from  mortal  hopes  and  fears, 
The  fulness  of  thy  calling  dost  inherit — 
If  in  some  wondrous  wise  our  thought  maj'  reach 
The  region  where  thou  dwellest,  and  our  speech 
May  pierce  the  lofty  calm  of  thine  estate. 
Take  this  the  homage  from  our  hearts  upwinging! 
Know,  mighty  master,  that  thy  message  ringing 
Still  lifts  us  skyward,  thine  ensample  great 
Still  shows  ideals  that  we  strive  in  singing 
To  keep  inviolate. 

Thou  wast  both  seer  and  prophet;  through  the  thunder 
Of  all  thy  deep-mouthed  harmonies  there  runs 
A  strain  pythonic  that  beyond   the  suns    • 
Thrills  in  thy  major  C,  the  tone  of  wonder. 
Ah!  Couldst  thou  lend  it  us  for  one  brief  hour. 
Whisper  within  our  ears  that  word  of  power, 
Should  we  not  sing,  indeed,  who  now  must  fail, 
Strive  how  we  may,  to  catch  the  chords  upwelling 
From  those  high  choirs  wherefrom  thy  songs  are  swelling. 
Who  find  our  feeble  notes  of  no  avail 
To  voice  the  half-formed  thought  for  whose  forthtelHng 
Our  harps  are  all  too  frail. 

Behold,  the  mighty  bards  are  wrapped  in  slumber; 
No  soul  titanic  sets  the  world  on  fire; 
Apollo's  fane  is  bare,  unstrung  his  lyre! 
The  tale  of  all  our  minstrels  one  might  number 
And  find  none  fit  to  mate  his  muse  to  thine; 
Our  altar  fires  bear  flames  but  half  divine. 
Strive,  if  thou  may'st,  to  burst  the  bonds  that  bar! 
Bid  thy  strong  spirit,  clothed  with  raiment  mortal, 
Re-enter  life  by  birth's  unfolding  portal 
And,  in  thy  pity  for  our  voiceless  star. 
Inform  anew  some  singer  all  immortal 
In  one  last  avatar! 

From  the  Boston  Evening  Transcript,  May  4,  1912;  pub- 
lished with   the  permission   of  the  editor. 

Page  Thirty-nine 


HOMAGE        TO 


BROWNING 
By  Madison  Cawein 

Master  of  human  harmonies,  where  song 
And  harp  and  violin  and  flute  accord; 
Each  instrument  proclaiming  you  its  lord 
There  in  the  deathless  Orchestra  of  Song; 
Albeit  at  times  your  music  may  sound  wrong 
To  our  dull  senses,  and  its  meaning  barred 
To  mortal  understanding — never  marred 
Is  5^our  high  message,  clear,  of  trumpet  tongue. 

Poet,  revealer,  who  both  soon  and  late 
Within  an  age  of  doubt  kept  strong  your  faith, 
Crying  your  cry  that  with  the  world  all's  well — 
What  wizard  powers  upon  your  word  await. 
To  rout  the  darkness  from  the  House  of  Death, 
And  fill  it,  triumphant,  with  Life's  organ  swell ! 

From  "The  Cup  of  Comus."  Published  with  pennission 
of  all  parties  concerned.  Recognition  is  made  to  Airs. 
Rose  de  Vaux-Roger  of  the  Cameo  Press  of  New  York, 
Otto  A.  Rothert,  Literary  Executor  to  Madison  Ca- 
zvein  and  to  Madison  {formerly  Preston)  Cawein,  sole 
heir  to  the  poet. 

TO  BROWNING 
By  Edwin  Markham 

You  plumbed  the  timeless  tides  that  wash  the  shoal 
Of  Time,  and   from  j^our  cliff  of  vision  saw 
The  streaming  Will  whose  other  name  is  Law. 

You  sang  the  urge  of  the  imperious  soul, 

Winged  with  its  dream,  and  pressing  toward  the  goal — 
Sang  of  the  soul  whose  flying  steps  are  fate 
As  it  goes  searching  for  the  secret  gate, 

Where  each  must  bring  his  very  all  for  toll. 

O  Poet,  vanished  from  our  mortal  day, 

Send  back  some  signal  from  the  upward  way, 

Send  back  a  whisper  from  the  seraph  height: 
What  word  for  man?  will  he  at  last  arrive? 

Answer  again  out  of  your  larger  light: 
The  stars  are  crumbling — will  the  soul  survive? 

New  York  Browning  Society,,  191 2;  published  with  per- 
mission of  author  and  of  the  Society. 

Page  Forty 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


THE  CAMBERWELL  GARDEN 

By  Richard  Burton 

{BroiL'tiing  icas  horn  May  Jth.  at  CambenvcU,  a  suburb 
of  London) 

May  hath  her  own  blithe  beauty,  nor  doth  need 

The  other  loveliness  of  human  deed 

And  human  fellowship;  yet  doubly  fair 

She  seems  to  brood  o'er  Camberwell,  since  there 

Once  walked  the  lad  who  made  of  blooms  and  bird'-- 

His  cronies,  knew  their  winsome  ways  and  words. 

Far  did  he  wander;  many  a  mile  away 
And  many  a  year,  he  saw  the  face  of  May 
Rosy,  recurrent,  in  Italian  nooks 
Uplifting  summer  arms  and  siren  looks. 
This  month  of  melody  and  warmth  and  shine 
Is  welcome  to  the  heart  of  man  as  wine! 

Ah,  but  at  Camberwell  each  sound  and  sight 

And  scent — sure  ministers  to  his  delight — 

Were  interwoven  with  dewy  memories 

Stronger  and  sweeter  than   from  overseas; 

And  wheresoe'er  his  feet  in  faring  turned, 

Whiles,  for  that  garden-place  he  must  have  yearned. 

He  who  comes  back  to  greet  an  old,  dear  friend, 
And  finds  him  gone,  knows  it  is  not  the  end, 
But  lovingly  awaits  the  gladder  day 
When  all  friends  gather  in  from  far-away. 
So  maiden  May  comes  back  and  waits  for  him 
In  grass  and   flower  and  every  greening  limb. 


Long  gone  the  garden,  and  the  singer  too 
Sleeps  otherwhere;  but  still  the  sky  is  blue, 
Spring  scents  are  rife,  old  magic  still  beguiles, 
And  May  in  Camberwell  recalls,  and  smiles. 

Published  ivith   the  permission   of   the  author. 

Page  Forty-one 


HOMAGE        TO 


A  BIRTHDAY 

By  Charlotte  Porter 

Forces  unknown  of  birthdays  new — 
Life's  miracles  are  they! 
A  hundred  years  have  but  found  true 
The  worth  of  one  May  day. 

Then,    that   most   puny,   potent   thing — 
A  baby  life  was  born, 
Whose  unguessed  force-of-joy  to  sing, 
Lasts  like  a  May  unworn. 

I  think  the  ripened  soul  that  sung — 
"Grow  old  along  with  me!" — 
Cries, — Wonder  is  from  each  instant  sprung! 
Keep  your  soul  young  to  see! 

From  Ncjv  York  Browning  Society,   1912,  p   121;  pub- 
lished ivith  permission   of  the    Society    and    of    the 


author. 

BROWNING 

By  Richard  Le  Gallienne 

So  many  books  are  gone,  lost  in  the  mind, 

Nurture  forgotten  ;  once  on  fancy's  tongue 

Sweet  to  the  taste ;  many  a  honeyed  song. 

Yea!  and  deep-thoughted  fruit  with  bitter  rind: 

Browning  goes  not.     As  when  a  boy,  I  find 

Still  the  old  magic  master  loved  so  long; 

Here  still   the   strength   that   still   can   make   me   strong, 

Still  the  delight  of  mountains  still  behind. 

And  still  among  the  rocks  and  stars  of  speech 
The  sudden  silver  singing  of  a  bird. 
Perched  on  the  craggy  ridges  of  his  thought. 
Too  high  'twould  seem  to  sing — still  out  of  reach 
Of  the  world's  ear,  that  hardly  yet  hath  caught 
The  music  hidden  in  the  gnarled  word. 

From  the  Boston  Evening  Transcript,  May  4,  1912;  pub- 
lished ivith  permission   of   the   editor. 

Page  Forty-two 


R  O  15  E  R  T     BROWNING 


IN  PRAISE  OF  BROWNING 

By  Charlotte  Porter 

Of  loveliness,   and   all   the   fair 

In  Life,  the  perfect,  choice,  and   rare — 

The  bloom   of   deeds, 

Most  poets  tell: 

They  with  the  love  of  Beauty  swell 

The  heart  of  Man;  and  this  is  well. 

But  Browning;  moves  to  love  of  life, 

Oft-failing  yet  aspiring  strife 

Tow'rd  Beauty's  seeds — 

The  sleeping  spore 

Such  love  of  life  can  wake  to  soar 

Within  each  heart:    O  this  is  more! 

With  growing  light  through  ages  shine 

The  visions  of  the  Love  Divine 

Of  God  made  man: 

So  seers  still  win 

A  hope  for  mortals,  spite  of  sin, 

And  life  is  bless'd  since  that  hath  been. 

But  Browning's  vivid  eye  discerns 

God  in  each  heart  where  pure  love  burns: 

Where   Spirit   ran, 

Flashing  strange  spells. 

Transcendent  love  in  might  upwells ; 

God's  witness  thus  in  each  Soul  dwells. 

Published  zvi/h   permission   of  the  author. 


BROWNING 
By  Robert  Adger  Bowen 

As  when  amid  some  vast  orchestral  din 

The  organ's  deep  majestic  sound  is  heard; 

So  doth  thy  voice  with  Life's  great  mystery  stirred, 

Sweep  o'er  the  strife  of  flute  and  violin. 

From   Bookman.    Fol.   4;  published  ivith   the   permission 
of  the  editor. 

Page  Forty-three 


HOMAGE        TO 


TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Agnes  Lee 

He  who  leaves  a  glimmer  of  his  soul 
In  a  bit  of  marble,  in  a  song, 
He  shall  win  the  unseen  aureole 
Set  above  the  stars  the  ages  long, 
And  the  fleeting  import  of  his  days 
Echoes  of  eternity  shall  praise. 

We   of   earth   thy   mastery   would   hail, 
Iron  hand  that  shook  the  gates  of  art. 
Crumpled   rock  to  ridge's  flowering  trail, 
Yours,  O  feet,  that,  following  no  chart, 
Forged  a  future,  or  in  spaces  free 
Walked  the  winding  floor  of  some  old  sea. 

Poet  of  life's  ordinances  deep — 
Cities  lying  restless  in  the  night. 
Tossing,  turning  ere  they  fall  asleep — 
Meadow-streams  in  peace  of  pale  moonlight, 
We,  the  tossing  city,  we,  the  stream, 
Share  thy  noble  heritage  of  dream! 

Ah !    There  is  a  name  within  thy  name 
Known   to  love  and  lyric  ever\^where. 
Lettered  on  the  heart  in  strokes  of  flame, 
Hers  who  wrought  in  love's  encloistered  air 
Gathering  the  guerdon  of  her  hours. 
Holding  up  to  thee  and  heaven  her  flowers. 

Call  we  unto  her,  thou  art  in  sight. 
Call  we  unto  thee,  she  glides  to  us. 
And  before  the  garden  of  delight 
Where  forever  song  is  tremulous 
Two  beloved  forms  Time  radiates, 
Passing  in  together  through  the  gates. 


Page  Forty -four 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Helen  A.  Clarke 

"Say  not  \vc  know,  but  rather  that  we  love, 

And  so  wc  know  enough."     Thus  deeply  spoke 

The  Saee;  and  in  men's  stunted  hearts  awoke 

A  haunting;  fear,  for  fain  are  they  to  prove 

Their  life,  their  God,  with  yeas  and  naj^s  that  move 

The  mind's  uncertain  flow.     Then  fierce  outbroke, — 

Knowledge,  the  child  of  pain  shall  we  revoke? 

The  giu'de  wherewith  men  climb  to  things  above? 

Nay,  calm  your  fears!     'Tis  but  the  mere  mind's  knowing. 

The  soul's  alone  the  poet  worthy  deeming. 

Let  mind  up-build  its  entities  of  seeming 

With  toil  and  tears!    The  toil  is  but  for  showing 

How  much  there  lacks  of  truth.     But  'tis  no  dreaming 

When  sky  throbs  back  to  heart,  with  God's  love  beaming. 

From  BrozL'ninff  and  His  Century,  p.  2,  published  zuith 
permission   of   the   author. 


ROBERT   BROWNING 

By  Aubrey  De  Vere 

His  feast  of  Life  was  rich — this  life  of  ours: 
All  human  things  'neath  yonder  azure  cope 
For  him  were  deep  in  meaning,  wide  in  hope. 
Nor  those  alone:  above  our  brakes  and  bowers 
Mad  dance  he  saw  of  Genii  scattering  flowers. 
His  fancy  kept  a  key  strange  gates  to  ope; 
Became  at  will  that  quaint  kaleidoscope 
Which  turns  all  shapes  to  patterns,  then  devours 
The  last  to  fashion  new.     His  grasp  was  large; 
He  knew  that,  with  the  suffering  heart  of  man 
Compared,  all  matter-worlds  but  fill  a  span. 
His  Song  had  shafts  that  pierced  a  spirit-targe; 
Its  flight  outsoared  the  agnostic  poet-clan, 
Faithful  to  humblest  Song's  implicit  charge. 

From  Harper's  Neiv  Monthly  Magazine — Vol.  80:931; 
published  with  the  permission  of  the  editor. 

Page    Forty-five 


HOMAGE        TO 


MESMERISM 

By  Ezra  Pound 

"And  a  cat's  in  the  water-butt." — Robert   Browning. 

Aye,  you're  a  man  that!  ye  old  mesmerizer! 

Tyin'  your  meanin'   in   seventy  swadelin's, 

One  must  of  needs  be  a  hang'd  early  riser 

To  catch  jou  at  worm  turning.     Holy  Odd's  bodykins! 

"Cat's  i'  the  water-butt!"  Thought's  in  your  verse-barrel, 
Tell  us  this  thing  rather,  then  we'll  believe  you, 
You,  Master  Bob  Browning,  spite  your  apparel 
Jump  to  your  sense  and  give  praise  as  we'd  lief  do. 

You  wheeze  as  a  head-cold,  long-tonsiled  Calliope, 
But,  God !    What  a  sight  you  ha'  got  o'  our  in'ards. 
Mad  as  a  hatter  but  surely  no  Mj^ope, 
Broad  as  all  ocean  and  leanin'  mankin'ards. 

Heart  that  was  big  as  the  bowels  of  Vesuvius, 
Words  that  were  wing'd  as  her  sparks  in  eruption, 
Eagled  and  thundered  as  Jupiter  Pluvius, 
Sound  in  your  wind  past  all  signs  o'  corruption. 

Here's  to  you.  Old  Hippety-hop  o'  the  accents, 

True  to  the  Truth's  sake  and  crafty  dissector. 

You  grabbed  at  the  gold  sure;  had  no  need  to  pack  cents 

Into  your  versicles.     Clear  sight's  elector! 

Published  with  permission  of  the  author. 

BROWNING 

By  Sara  Taw^ney  Lefferts 

We  love  him  since,  a  man,  he  makes  us  see 
What  the  true  stature  of  a  man  should  be; 
And  being  poet,  he  has  made  us  feel 
That  truth,  the  highest  thing  soul  can  reveal, 
Each  in  himself  may  find  and  body  forth. 
Sharing  the  poet's  mind,  the  poet's  worth. 

Published  with   author's  permission. 

Page  Forty-six 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


THE  TWO  BOBBIES 

By  Bliss  Carman 

Bobbie  Burns  and  Bobbie  Browning, 
They're  the  boys  I'd  like  to  see, 
Though  I'm  not  the  boy  for  Bobbie, 
Bobbie  is  the  boy  for  me! 

Bobbie  Browning  was  the  good  boy; 
Turned  the  language  inside  out; 
Wrote  his  plays  and   had  his  days, 
Died — and  held  his  peace,  no  doubt. 

Poor  North  Bobbie  was  the  bad  boy, — 
Bad,  bad,  bad,  bad  Bobbie  Burns! 
Loved  and  made  the  world  his  lover, 
Kissed  and   barleycorned   by  turns. 

London's  dweller,  child  of  wisdom. 
Kept  his  council,  took  his  toll ; 
Ayrshire's  vagrant  paid  the  piper, 
Lost  the  game — God  save  his  soul ! 

Bobbie  Burns  and  Bobbie  Browning, 
What's  the  difference,  you  see? 
Bob  the  lover.  Bob  the  lawyer; 
Bobbie  is  the  boy  for  me! 

From  "Songs  From  Vdgabondia;"  published  by  kind  per- 
mission  of  the  authors. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Mary  A.  Woods 

The  paths  of  night  and  death  unscathed  he  trod, 
His  eye  still  fixed  where,  pale  in  whitening  skies. 
Love's  herald-star  assured   a  sun's  uprise. 
And  darkness  slain,  and  earth  "afire  with  God." 

From  Living  Age,  Vol.  231,  p.  528;  published  ivith  per- 
mission of  the  editor. 

Page   Forty-seven 


HOMAGE        TO 


ROBERT  BROWNING'S  BIRTHDAY 
By  William  Harman  van  Allen 

For  what  masterpiece  to  praise  him,   Browning,   poet  of 

the  height? 
For  Sordello,  dreaming  idly  till  he  dies  to  win  his  fight? 
Or  for  Pippa,  gaily  singing  on  the  streets  of  Asolo 
Like  a  bird  of  God  whose  likings  with  a  benison  o'erflow? 
For  the  marvellous  musicians,  Abbot  Vogler  and  the  rest, 
And  the  painters,  half-forgotten,  whose  dim  colors  gleam 

their  best 
In  the  light  he  pours  upon  them  ?     Is  it  Venice,  Florence, 

Rome, 
Where  the  thaumaturge  we  honor  shows  his  genius  most 

at  home? 
Evelyn,    the    Duchess,     Waring,     Karshish,     ever-blessed 

John, 
Saul,  Ben  Ezra,  Paracelsus,  exquisite  Balaustion: 
All  immortal,  since  he  limned  them  with  his  own  creative 

art. 
But  from  out  them  all  I  single  one  as  lady  of  my  heart, 
Standing  altogether  lovely  in  her  lilied  innocence. 
What  though  hell  itself  assailed  her?     She  had  Michael 

for  defense, 
And,  for  pattern  and  consoler,  holy  Mary,  Mother-Maid. 
So  I  dare  to  canonize  her,  saint  and  martyr,  unafraid. 
And  this  laurel-leaf  I  offer  to  our  poet,  gratefully. 
Painter  of  Pompilia's  portrait,  perfect  in  her  purity. 

Tributes  read  May  7,  1907,  from  the  Boston  Broivning 
Society,  1909-1910,  />.  1 1  ;  published  luith  permission 
of  the  Society. 


Page  Forty-eight 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Marie  Ada  Molineux 

With  the  sunrise  woke  his  life 
Flushed  with  all  Youth's  noble  hopes, 
Brighter  growing  as  the  sun 
Climbed   toward   the  mountain-slopes. 

As  the  midday  glows  with  light 
So  his  glorious  manhood  came ; 
Giving  hope  to  all  oppressed 
Shone  his  beacon-light  of  fame. 

When  the  sunset  splendors  spread 
In  that  loved  yet  alien  land 
Sister,  son  and  nations  mourned — 
Glad   he  clasped  a  spirit  hand! 

In  our  night  the  stars  that  shine 
Are  tlie  memories  of  him ; 
Through  the  centuries  to  come 
Guide  they  surelj^,  nor  grow  dim. 

From    the   Boston    Broivning   Society,    1909-1910,    p.    25, 
and  published  with  permission  of  the  author. 

BROWNING 

By  Dorothea  Lawrence  Mann" 

Master,  about  whose  laurelled  head   the  years 
Fame's  fairest,  richest  aureole  have  bound, 
"We,  too,  within  the  closing  century's  round 
Would  tribute  bring  thee  in  thy  starry  spheres, — 
Love  of  our  hearts  and  all  our  gladdening  fears 
We  bring  to  thee,  our  master-warrior,  found 
Triumphant  in  life's  battles, — victor  crowned 
By  voice  of  all  earth's  prophets  and  her  seers. 

O  magic  builder,  through  thy  strong-winged  song, 

Thy  pinions  swept  life's  farthest  deeps  of  air 

And  soaring  still  thy  living  spirit  swa3^s — 

A  wind  of  fire  that  stirs  like  a  mighty  throng 

Of  counselling  actions,  visioning  fair 

Body  and  spirit  through  man's  length  of  dajs. 

From    the   Boston   Evening   Transcript,   May     4,     1912; 
published  with  permission  of  the  editor. 

Page  Forty-nine 


HOMAGE        TO 


ROBERT  BROWNING 
By  Margaret  Widdemer 

The  world  has  said  in  its  need  since  the  work  of  the 
world  began, 

"Fair  is  the  song  to  heed,  so  what  need  we  ask  of  the 
man? 

Praise  for  the  flame-pure  song;  what  matter  the  folk 
that  sing? 

Let  them  hold  duty  a  sham.e  and  honor  a  little  thing! 

iWords  in  a  noble  flood,  and  if  hearts  shall  be  crushed 
beneath, 

There  must  be  drops  of  blood  for  the  gems  of  the  laurel- 
wreath." 

But  this  bard  stood  to  his  word ;  his  life  to  his  lyre  rang 

true  ; 
He   held   by  the   truths  he   spoke;   the  honor  he   praised 

he   knew ; 
And  where  his  torch  burned  high  with  a  steady,  joyful 

spark, 
He  heard  a  wonderful  cry  that  sang  and  sobbed  in  the 

dark. 
His  strong  hands  stretched   to  the  shade  and   lifted   the 

captive  free; 
Close  by  him,  unafraid,  she  chanted  more  perfectly. 
Down   through   her  years   till   night   still   held   they   the 

great  dream  higher, 
Clear  to  the  sad  world's  sight  a  pulsing  of  star-white  fire. 

Aye,  through  his  years  alone  of  playing  the  brave  world 

part 
Ever  the  star-fire  shone  as  vestal-clear  in  his  heart; 
Changeless  his  faith  and  brave,  and  dauntless  his  steady 

sight, 
Watching  across  her   grave   to   a   tryst   in   the   unknown 

light. 
Loyal  comrade  and  guide,  noble  poet  and  friend. 
Yet  beyond  all  beside  true  lover  and  knight  to  the  end ! 

From   the  Century  Magazine,   Vol.   85,   No.   3,  p.   416; 
published  ivith   permission   of  the  author. 


Page  Fifty 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS 

By  Mrs.  Bloomfield  Moore 

I  cannot  write  for  fulness  of  content; 

Poems  are  born  as  thunders  are,  from  out 

The  strife  of  elements  to  purify 

The  stagnant  air.     So  high  I  stand,  so  near 

To  heaven,  nor  strife  nor  passion's  sultry  breath 

Can  reach  me  here.     When  hearts  are  full  as  mine 

Few  are  the  words  \\hich  break — as  bubbles  break 

The  quiet  surface  of  an  ocean  deep 

When  cradled   into  calm — few  are  the  words, 

I  ween,  that  stir  the  sweet  content  when  hearts 

Are  still ;  but,  ere  we  met,  one  whom  I  loved, 

Back  from  a  new-made  grave,  had  stepped  to  stab 

Me  in  the  dark ;  and  all  my  wrongs  arose 

To  sweep  my  heart-strings  with   their  myriad   hands. 

As  wakes  the  wild  wind-harp,  so  woke  my  lyre. 

And  strain  on  strain  escaped  until  the  storm 

Of  tortured  feeling  ceased  within  the  calm 

Of  thy  blest  presence.     Lost  my  riches  were, 

And  wrecked  the  barque  which  held  my  all  in  life. 

I  stood  in  terror  on  the  rock-girt  shore. 

No  voice  to  pity,  and  no  arms  to  save — 

Fearing  the  worst,  nor  hoping  aught  of  man ! 

Anon,  the  darkness  lifted,  and  I  saw. 

Riding  at  anchor,  on  the  treacherous  sea, 

A  noble  ship,  laden  to  edge  with  all 

Which    makes   life    sweet    and    strong.      It    brought    thy 

hand 
Out-stretched,  to  which  I  clung — with  hungry  heart 
And  famished  soul  eating  the  angels'  food 
Proffered  in  largess  such  as  great  souls  yield. 
There  is  no  wealth  like  that  which  thou  hast  given 
To  me — no  riches  like  the  treasure  thou 
Hast  poured  from  founts  exhaustless  of  thine  own! 
I  who  was  poor  am  rich!    I  bring  my  lyre 
And  break  it  at  thy  feet:  its  need  is  o'er. 
Since  discord  and  despair  can  strike  its  strings 
No  more.     Thou  art  my  friend!  no  greater  boon 
Hath  earth  to  give  than  friendship  such  as  thine! 

From  Browning  Society  Papers,  Part   I2,  p.   lo8. 

Page   Fifty -one 


HOMAGE        TO 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Robert  Buchanan 

Bearded  like  some  strong  shipman,  with  a  beam 

Of  grey  orbs  glancing  upward  at  the  sky, 

O  friend,  thou  standest,  pondering  thy  theme, 

And  watching  while  the  troublous  days  blow  by 

Their  cloudy  signs  and  portents;  then  thine  eye 

Falleth,   and   reading  with   poetic  gleam 

The   human   lineaments    that   round    thee   lie, 

Peers  to  the  soul,  and  softens  into  dreams. 

O  dweller  in  the  winds  and  waves  of  life, 

Reader  of  living  faces  foul  and  fair, 

No  nobler  mariner  may  mortal  meet! 

Stedfast  and  sure  thou  movest  thro'   the  strife, 

Knowing  the  signs  and  symbols  of  the  air. 

Yet  gentle  as  the  dews  about  thy  feet. 

From  Browning  Society  Papers,  Part  I,  p.  lOO. 


THE  POET'S  WAY 

By  J.  B.  Oldham 

Chain  the  poet  to  your  table, 
Bind  his  soul  with  silken  chains. 
While  3^ou  probe  with  patient  science 
In  the  bell-shaped  bit  of  brains 
For  the  secret  source  whence  springeth 
Such  a  marvel  of  sweet  strains; 

Still  the  reason  will  be  hidden 
From  your  analytic  gaze 
Why  the  poet  sometimes  uses 
Such  queer  complicated  phrase. 
For  a  poet  moves  as  God  does. 
In  a  thousand  secret  ways. 

From  Browning  Society  Papers,  Vol.   ii,  p.  329. 


Page  Fifty-two 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


TO  BROWNING 

By  Clement  G.  Clarke 

Thou  arc  so  sure!  and  yet  thou  speak'st  of  things 

Which  have  eternal  wei.sht.     Thy  sonp;  is  fraught 

With  proofs  of  that  which  saint  and  seer  have  sought 

In  vain  to  demonstrate;  what  spirit  hrings 

Thee  surety?    Others  hope;  thou  says't,  "I  know — 

The  spirit  is  immortal."     Hast  thou  seen 

From  Patmos  Isle  the  vision?  art  serene 

Because  thy  faith — or  sight — hath  made  thee  so? 

We  question  not ;  but  for  thy  confidence 

In  that  which  was  our  mothers'  ground  of  trust 

We  thank  thee — thou,  so  nobly  learn'd,  so  just 

In  judgment,  thought,  and  feeling;  so  intense 

In  all  that  makes  a  man.— We  give  thee  praise 

And   thanks,   thou   trusting  soul,   midst   doubting  days. 

From    Outlook.    52:97;   published   tvith    the    permission 
of  the  editor. 


TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Poet,  Seer,  Philosopher 

By  Eric  Mackey 

I  knew  thee  first  as  one  may  know  the  fame, 
Of  some  apostle,  as  a  man  may  know 
The  mid-day  sun,  far-shining  o'er  the  snow. 
I  hail'd  thee  prince  of  poets!    I  became 
Vassal  of  thine,  and  warm'd  me  at  the  flame 
Of  thy  pure  thought,  my  spirit  all  aglow 
With  dreams  of  peace,  and  pomp,  and  lyric  show. 
And  all  the  splendors,  Browning!  of  thy  name. 
But  now,  a  man  reveal'd,  a  guide  for  men, 
I  see  thy  face,  I  clasp  thee  by  the  hand ; 
And  though  the  Muses  in  thy  presence  stand. 
There's  room  for  my  to  loiter  in  thy  ken. 
O  lordly  soul!    O  wizard  of  the  pen! 
What  news  from  God?    What  word   from   Fairy- 
land? 

From  Broivning  Society  Papers,  Feb.  22,   1889,  p.   329- 
Page  Fifty-three 


HOMAGE        TO 


BROWNING  AT  "THE  CENCI" 

May  7,  1886 
By  J.  J.  Britton 

To  Shelley's  festival,  we  keep  to-day, 
Comes,  honored   guest,  with  genial  smile,   the  man, 
Whom  we  name  first  of  all  the  poet  clan 
Now  drawing  breath;  and  so  our  glances  stray 
To  where  he  sits  attentive ;  whilst  the  grey, 
Cold  cloak  of  misery,  that  grows  alway 
Wraps  Beatrice — till,  from  the  ruthless  ban 
Comes  peace,  outsmitten  by  the  axe's  sway. 

Ave!  dead  singer,  caught  by  hungry  seas 

That  swept  upon  thee,  swamping  half  thy  song. 

Great  as  thou  wert,  a  greater  yet  is  here. 

Hail !  living  singer,  mayest  thou  tarry  long 

Among  us,  love  us,  weave,  with  harmonies 

Grave   thoughts  of  power   to   calm   life's   fret   and    fear. 

From  Brozvning  Society  Papers,  Part  8,  p.  147. 

MOUNTAIN-BIRTH 

{On    The  Ring  and  the  Book) 
Hoiv  It  Strikes  a  Contemporary. 

By  Alfred  Forman 

"The  mountain  would  be  better  were  its  snow 

A  furlong  wider  on  the  sunset  side; 

Or  farther  had  its  pines  crept  up  to  hide 

The  scars  it  gathered  in  its  rising-throe ; 

The  torrent,  as  it  seems  to  me  below. 

Might  well  have  ventured  from  its  line  to  swerve 

Into  the  semblance  of  a  purer  curve 

Before  the  precipice  received  its  flow." 

So  the  coeval  critic ;  yet  its  head 

The  mountain  still  shoots  up  to  keep  from  sun 

Or  thunder  safe  the  vale  beneath  it  spread. 

The  critic's  word  was  over  soon  and  done. 

The  mountain,  hardly  rooted  in  its  bed, 

Its  deathless  duties  had  not  yet  begun. 

From  Brozvning  Society  Papers,  Part  8,  p.  I20. 

Page  Fifty -four 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


WHAT  COMES   TO   PERFECTION   PERISHES 

By  Sarah  A.  Bennett 

"What  comes  to  perfection   perishes" — 
Yet  ah!  the  bloom  on  the  vine! 
The  velvet  sheen  of   its   garlanded   green, 
And   the  purple,   purple  wine! 

"What    comes    to    perfection    perishes" — 
The  wild  rose  wreathed  in  a  pall, 
Just  kissed  b}^  the  sun,  then  her  race  is  run: 
Let  the  waxen  petals  fall! 

"What    comes    to    perfection    perishes" — 
From  its  stem  you  sever  the  spray. 
But  those  heather  bells  from  the  mountain  fells 
Shall   ring  their  chime  alway. 

"What    comes    to    perfection    perishes" — 
Slips  from  the  hold  of  our  hand, 
But  lives  in  its  place  (as  a  beautiful  face) 
In  the  perfectly  beautiful   Land. 

From  Brotvning  Society  Papers,  Part   lO,  p.  228. 

TO  A  BROWNING  POEM 

By  James  L.  Hughes 

I  read  you  many  times  before, 
And   thought  you  clear  and  true; 
Today  I  read  your  lines  once  more 
And  found  a  message  new. 

Why  did  you  not  reveal  to  me 
That  message  long  ago? 
"Because  you  had  not  power  to  see ; 
You  had  to  wait  and  grow. 

"Live  out  the  message  of  today. 
And  when  you  read  again, 
Your  vision  will  have  stronger  ray 
For  higher  message  then." 

From  "Soiiffs  of  Gladness;"  published  tcith  permission  of 
the  author. 

Page  Fifty-five 


HOMAGE        TO 


DEDICATION  OF  POEMS 
TO  MY  FRIEND  ROBERT  BROWNING 

By   Mrs.   Clara  Jessop   Moore 

Thou  wilt  not  turn  away — thou  wilt  not  say, 
"I  care  not  for  such  sad,  wild  strains  as  these, 
I  care  not  for  pale  field-flowers  like  to  thine. 
Nor  yet  for  fractured  stones  though  set  in  gold." 
Thou  wilt  bend  over  them,  and  from  thy  eyes 
Some  pitying  drops  will  fall  to  give  them  worth. 
A  beggar  might  choose  pebbles  by  the  road, 
As  well,  to  take  unto  a  king,  whose  crown 
Is  set  with  gems: — a  peasant  better  could 
Choose  wayside  flowers,  and  bear  them  to  a  queen 
Whose  palace  gardens  glow  in  gorgeous  blaze 
Of  tropic  hues.    The  king,  the  queen,  might  turn 
In  cold  disdain ;  but  thou,  the  king  of  men, 
Wilt  say,  "No  flower  but  that  to  me  is  sweet, 
Which  love  or  friendship  places  at  my  feet." 

From   Poems,   "The   Modern   Pilgrim's    Progress"     and 
"Slander  and  Gossip." 

A  GREETING  TO  BROWNING  LOVERS 

By  Ruth  Baldwin  Chenery 

Lovers  of  Robert  Browning,  could  we  praise 
Our  Poet-Master  in  a  dreamy  verse. 
That  born  and  steeped  in  music,  might  rehearse 
His  mighty  genius,  building  phrase  on  phrase. 

He  scarce  would  thank  us;  for  the  victor  bays 
Are  green  about  his  brow,  and  no  reverse 
Can  ever  dim  them:  fame  howe'er  perverse. 
No  more  can  vex  him  with  her  long  delays. 

O,  let  us  feel  like  him  the  joy  of  life; 

The  throstle's  singing  and  the  hawthorne  flower 

Cheered  his  whole  soul,  and  nothing  mean  or  sad 

Made  him  despair  that  man  shall  rise  through  strife; 
"God's  in  His  heaven!"  we  will  not  flinch  or  cower, 
So  shall  we  make  the  Heart  of  Browning  glad. 

From  "At  Vesper  Tima"  p.  48,  with  permission  of  the 
author. 

Page  Fifty-six 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


BROWNING 

By  Miles  M.  Dawson 

This  was  the  prince  of  suitors.    He  divined 
The  subtle  cravinsis  of  a  woman's  mind — 
Her  sense  of  worth,  of  pride  and  dignity. 
These  plumbed  he  tenderly,  unerrin.o;ly, 
Whether  poor  Pippa  or  the  jilted  queen 
Or  fleeing  duchess  ventures  on  the  scene. 

This  was  the  master-wooer ;  for  he  knew 
That  he  who  loves  sublimely  need  not  sue, 
That  the  mute  adoration  of  the  soul 
Which  is  her  very  being,  doth  control 
Her  every  impulse  for  him  and  her  flesh, 
As  the  rapt  spirit's  counterpact,  enmesh. 

This  was  the  royal  lover.     This  was  he 

Who  knew,  and  was,  what  all  lovers  should  be. 

To  him  the  love  of  woman  was  a  thing 

So  sacred   that  no  other  offering — 

Not  life,  not  honor,  not  whate'er  men  prize — 

Is  pure  or  precious  with  it  in  his  eyes. 

Published  icith  author's  permission. 


BROWNING 

By  Jeanie  Feet 

Near  a  great  forest,  one  cried  out  "Obscure!" 

As  if  it  angered  him;  the  other,  "True; 

Yet  none  the  less  those  shadowed  deeps  allure. 

Keep  to  the  sanded  alleys,  friend !    For  you 

Such  paths  were  laid.     'Tis  one  good  reason  more 

Why  I  prefer  the  forest  to  explore. 

"Just  where  the  thick-starred  tapestry  of  vines 
Seems  to  say  'No  admittance',  look,  they  part! 
Far  sweep  the  fragrant  vistas  through  the  pines. 
Obscure!    Like  nature,  like  the  human  heart." 

From   the   Century   Ma,^azine,   Vol.   72,   No.   2,   p.   253; 
published  nith  permission  of  editor. 

Page  Fifty-seven 


HOMAGE        TO 


TO  BROWNING 

By  Pakenham  Beatty 

None  love  in  vain ;  for  God,  who  will  not  take 
Hiis  least  gift  back,  takes  not  the  heavenliest  one; 
None  of  his  faithful  will  Love's  heart  forsake, 
Though  death  make  dumb  the  spring  and  dark  the  sun. 

The  dead  are  alwaj's  with  us  everywhere, 
Unseen  of  mortal  eyes,  yet  unremoved, 
Those  gracious  ghosts  that  make  the  twilight  fair, 
The  souls  that  lighted  ours,  and  hearts  that  loved. 

No  nightingale  sings  for  the  rose  alone. 
But  the  least  leaf  may  share  his  gift  of  song; 
So,  while  the  many  mourners  make  their  moan, 
I,  least  of  all  who  loved  thee,  shall  not  wrong 

Thy  fame,  when  these  have  left  thee  with  thy  peers 
Nor  of  thy  spirit  be  misunderstood 
That  bring  thee  my  Love's  gift  of  song  and  tears — 
I  give  my  best,  and  each  heart's  best  is  good. 

From    Living  Age,    1 98-770;   published  ivith   permission 
of   editor. 


BROWNING 

By  C.  E.  D.  Phelps 

A  THOUGHT-BOW  which  the  world-string  scarce  can  pull; 

A  hand   too   heavy   for  the   instrument; 

A  gold  that  needs  alloy  ere  it  be  sent 

To  mint  or  graver;  verse  of  faults  as  full 

As  is  the  gem  of  facets;  myriad  lights  ; 

There  sparkle,  none  converge;  gigantic  wings, 

With  feet  unfit  for  homely  travellings:  i 

They  can  but  perch  on  Himalaya-heights. 

Ears  may  be  dull  or  low,  he  never  seeks 

To  reach  them  stooping,  as  another  man. 

They  rise  who  hear  him;  he  hath  proved  he  can 

Be  understanded  of  Babel-host: 

And  who  shall  blame  the  poet  if  he  speaks 

His  own  peculiar  language  more  than  most? 

From  Poet  Lore,  Vol.  5,  p.  288;  published  with  permis- 
sion  of  the  editor. 

Page  Fifty-eight 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


BROWNING 

Bv  Cara  E.  Whitox-Stone 

Oh,  English  Mother  of  that  flame-crowned  race, 

Hi'frh  priests  of  Soncf,  who  nurtured  on  thy  breast 

Live  on  immortal, — Browning  with  the  rest, 

Proud  of  thine  ownership  lift  up  thy  face 

His  birthday  on  Time's  shining  page  to  trace. 

Whose  song,  like  thunder  of  the  heavens,  has  passed 

INIagnificently  onward  East  and  West. 

Till  in  Fame's  citadel  it  has  found  place. 

Fitting  his  advent  to  the  world  of  men 

The  nightingales  should   chorus  near  and   far 

^Vho  into  Epics  sang  them  back  again, 

Enrapturing  Springs  that  ages  cannot  mar, 

And  set  thy  heavens  to  music  with  a  pen 

Dint  in  the  flooding  splendour  of  a  star. 

From   the  Boston   Browning  Society,    igog-igio,   p.   24; 
published  ivith  permission  of  the  Society. 


TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 

ON  RE-READING  SOME  POEMS  LONG 

UNREAD 

By  E.  Dickinson  West 

Friend,    "strong   since   joyful" — guide    upon    the    heights 

Of  life's  best  blessedness  and  life's  best  pain — 

Awhile  I  left  thee.     Now  I  come  again. 

Urged  by  the  vigor  lent  of  old,  which  fights 

Within  my  soul,  and  there  makes  good  its  rights 

Over  the  sloths  and  langours  of  the  plain. 

Lead  me!    I,  if  I  follow  thee,  am  sane 

From  sad-sick  dreams  and  lotus-flower  delights 

That  o'er  the  indolence  of  heart's  despair 

Shed  charm  of  Art.     Thy  nobler  Art  doth  cope 

With  doubts  and  ills.     And  they  who  with  thee  dare 

Thought's    strenuous   climb    on    rugged    mountain    slope, 

Find  vision  purged,  like  thine,  by  that  keen  air. 

To  catch  dear  glimpses  of  a  far-off  hope. 

Aug.  30,   1 88 1.     From  Academy,  Dec.  17,   188 1,  p.  454- 

Page  Fifty-nine 


H  O  I\I  A  G  E        TO 


TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Edmund  Gosse 

As  young  Greek  athletes  hung  their  votive  strigils 
Within  the  temples  of  the  Powers  above; 
As  lovers  gave  the  lamp  that  lit  their  vigils 
Through  sleepless  hours  of  love; 

So  I  this  lyric  symbol  of  my  labour, 
This  antique  light  that  led  my  dreams  so  long, 
This  battered  hull  of  a  barbaric  tabor. 
Beaten  to  runic  song, 

Bear  to  that  shrine  where  your  dear  presence  lingers, 
Where  stands  your  Muse's  statue  white  as  snow ; 
I  take  my  poor  gift  in  my  trembling  fingers. 
And  hang  it  there  and  go. 

This  very  day  one  hundred  j^ears  are  over 
Since  Landor's  godlike  spirit  came  to  earth; 
Surely  the  winter  air  laughed  like  a  lover. 
The  hour  that  give  him  birth. 

Ah !  had  he  lived  to  hear  our  hearts'  emotion, 
^Vhat  lyric  love  had  strewn  his  path  today! 
Yourself  had  sung;  and  Swinburne's  rapt  devotion 
Had  cleft  its  sunward  way; 

And   I   too,  though  unknown  and  unregarded, 
Had  thrown  my  violets  where  you  threw  your  bays. 
Had  seen  my  garland,  also,  not  discarded. 
Had  gloried  all  my  days! 

But  since  the  world  his  august  spirit  haunted 
Detains  him  here  no  more,  but  mourns  him   dead, 
And  other  chaplets,   in  strange  airs  enchanted. 
Girdle  his  sacred   head, 

Take  thou  my  small  oblation,  yea!  receive  it! 
Laid  at  thy  feet,  within  thy  shrine  it  stands! 
I  brought  it  from  my  heart,  and  here  I  leave  it. 
The  work  of  reverent  hands. 

January  30,   1875. 
Page  Sixty 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


ESSAY  ON  ROBERT  BROWNING,  DEC.  1886 

By  W.  G.  Kingsland 

O  strong-soul'd  sin2;er  of  higher  themes  and  wide — 
Thrice  noble  in  thy  work  and  life  alike — 
Thy  genius  glides  upon  a  sea,  whose  tide 
Heaves  with  a  pain  and  passion  infinite! 

Men's  hearts  laid  bare  beneath  thy  pitying  touch; 
Strong  words  that  comfort  all  o'erwearied  much ; 
Tlioughts  whose  calm   cadence  moulds  our  spirit-life, 
Gives  strength  to  bravely  bear  amid  world-strife; 
And  one  large  hope,  full  orb'd  as  summer  sun, 
That  souls  shall  surely  meet  when  LIFE  is  won! 

So  round  thy  heart  our  grateful  thanks  entwine; 
Men  are  the  better  for  these  songs  of  thine! 
At  eve  thy  muse  doth  o'er  us  mellower  swell, 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  life  lived  long  and  well. 

From  Broicnins  Society  Papers,  Part  11,  p.  399- 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Bertha  Laffan 

He  stands  like  some  tall  monarch  of  the  hills 
About  whose  feet  the  hamlets  clustering  spread 
In  valleys  daily  ringing  with  the  tread 
Of  labour,  and  the  unresting  whirr  of  mills — 
Above,  the  air  is  vocal  with  the  trills 
Of  woodland  birds,  and  tree  tops  overhead 
Weave  the  green  curtains  of  Titania's  bed 
Lapped  in  the  murmur  of  a  thousand  rills — 
Then  upward,  sheer,  a  sudden  rock-face  grows 
Rugged  and  rent,  and  cleft  with  lightning  scars. 
Or  furrowed  with  the  glacier's  travail  throes. 
But  far  beyond  the  roughness  and  the  jars 
Of  warring  forces,  rise  the  virgin  snows 
Up  to  the  silence  of  the  eternal  stars! 

Frof/t  Broivnliifr  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  p.  96. 

Page  Sixty-one 


H  O  M  AGE        TO 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Harriet  Adams  Sawyer 
That  soul  of  thine,  thou  peerless  bard  immortal, 
Is  like  unto   the  bounteous,  soundless  sea — 
Upon  its  shores  a  few  bright  shells  we  gather, 
In  ocean-bed  some  pearls  are  found  to  be; 
But,  who  could  tell  the  gems  thy  depths  have  treasured  ? 
Who,   understand   the  sources  whence  they  spring? 
We  only  know  those  depths  could  not  be  measured, — 
Our  best  powers  falter,  when  of  thee  we  sing. 
O,  mortal,  with  a  god-like  insight  dealing 
With  men,  and  women  walking  earthly  ways, 
How  learned  you  pathwa3^s  into  all  hearts  stealing? 
What  tuned  your  song  for  hymning  human  lays? 
And,  too,  we  dimly  see  thy  likeness  peering 
Through  night's  celestial  canopy  above, 
We  know  and  name  some  of  its  constellations 
Our  souls  read  mystic  messages  of  Love. 
But,  when  strained  ears  have  listened  to  their  story, 
Our  iimer  light  reveals  far  more  than  they, — 
We  know  well  that  we  know  not  half  the  glory 
The  heavens  declare.     We  hearken — we  obey: 
So,  will  we  seek  thy  message  to  remember; — 
To   see  divinity   through   weakness  shine, 
To  know  that  man  at  length  in  joy  must  waken 
In   image  of  his  Maker — all   divine. 

From   the  Boston   Brozvning  Society,    1909-1910,   p.   22; 
Published  ivith  permission   of  the  society. 

THE  TWO  FELICITIES 

{Appended  to   the  Pornpilia  Monologue  of 
'The  Ring  and  the  Book') 
By  William  Watson 
'Tis  human  fortune's  happiest  heights  to  be 
A  spirit  melodious,  lucid,  poised,  and  whole; 
Second  in  order  of  felicity 
I  hold  it,  to  have  walked  with  such  a  soul. 

By  Charles  B.  Wright 
A  goodly  truth,  and  goodliest  here  to  write, 
In  the  pure  ether  of  each  happy  height ; 
The  first  felicity  Pompilia's  dower, 
And  ours  the  other  by  a  poet's  power. 
From  Poet  Lore,  Vol.  9,  p.  472 ;  with  penriission. 
Page  Sixty-two 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


BROWNING'S  LINEAGE 

By  Henry  Van  Dyke 

How  blind  the  toll  that  burrows  like  the  mole, 
In  winding;  [jravcyard   pathways  underground, 
For  Browning's  lineage!  What  if  men  have  found 
Poor  footmen  or  rich  merchants  on  the  roll 
Of  his  forbears?    Did  they  beget  his  soul? 
Nay,  for  he  came  of  ancestry  renowned 
In  poesy  through  all  the  world,  and  crowned 
With  fadeless  light  that  shines  from  pole  to  pole. 

The  blazons  on  his  poet's  shield  are  these: 
The  flaming  sign  of  Shelley's  heart  on  fire, 
The  golden  globe  of  Shakespeare's  human  stage, 
The  staff  and  scrip  of  Chaucer's  pilgrimage. 
The  rose  of  Dante's  deep,   divine  desire. 
The  tragic  mask  of  wise  Euripides. 

From    the   Atlantic    Monthly,    Vol.   99,   No.    2,    p.    260; 
pahlished  ivith  the  permission  of  the  author. 

BROWNING  SAID  OF  THIE  "THE  RING  AND 
THE  BOOK:" 

"//  lives,  if  precious  be  the  soul  of  man  to  man." 

By  Ruth  Baldwin  Chenery 

O  thou  Great  Soul,  with  what  a  joyous  beat 
The  heart  still  throbs  at  thine  exultant  cry, 
For  thou  art  not  of  those  that  would  deny 
To  Genius,  even  thine  own,  largest  meet; 
It  was  not  thine  to  taste  the  lulling  sweet 
Of  early  praise;  for  long  did  men  decry 
The  greatness  of  thy  powers,  but  for  reply, 
At  last.  Fame  cast  her  laurels  at  thy  feet. 
"If  precious  be  the  soul  of  man  to  man, 
It  lives";  what  though  the  centuries  forget 
It's  crowding  details  as  the  English  plod 
Forever  forward   in   Heaven's  unknown  plan : 
"It  lives";  its  truth  shall  be  immortal  yet. 
If  precious  be  the  soul  of  man  to  God. 

From  "At  Vesper  Time,"  p.  53;  with  permission  of  the 
author. 

Page  Sixty-three 


/ 


HOMAGE        TO 


IN  A  COPY  OF  BROWNING 
By  Bliss  Carman 

Browning:,  old  fellow,  your  leaves  grow  yellow, 

Beginning  to  mellow  as  seasons  pass. 
Your  cover  is  wrinkled  and  stained  and  sprinkled, 

And  warped  and  crinkled  from  sleep  on  the  grass. 

Is  it  a  wine  stain  or  only  a  pine  stain. 

That  makes  such  a  fine  stain  on  j'our  dull  blue — 

Got  as  we  numbered  the  clouds  that  lumbered 

Southward  and  slumbered  when  day  was  through? 

What  is  the  dear  mark  there  like  an  ear  mark? 

Only  a  tear  mark  a  woman  let  fall. 
As,  bending  over,  she  bade  me  discover, 

"Who  plays  the  lover,  he  loses  all!" 

With  j^ou   for  teacher  we  learned   love's   feature 
In  every  creature  that  roves  or  grieves; 

When   the  winds  were  brawling,  or  bird-folk  calling 
Or  leaf-folk  falling  about  our  eaves. 

No  law  must  straiten  the  ways  they  wait  in, 
Whose  spirits  greaten  and  hearts  aspire. 

The  world  may  dwindle,  and  summer  brindle. 
So  love  but  kindle  the  soul  to  fire. 

Here   many  a  red   line,   or  penciled   headline, 
Shows  love  could  wed  line  to  perfect  sense; 

And  something  better  than  wisdom's  fetter 
Has  made  your  letter  dense  to  the  dense. 

You  made  us  farers  and  equal  sharers 

With  homespun-wearers  in  home-made  joj^s; 

You  made  us  princes  no  plea  convinces 
That  spirit  winces  at  dust  and  noise. 

When  Fate  was  nagging,  and  days  were  dragging, 

And  fancy  lagging,  you  gave  it  scope, 
When    eaves    were    drippy,    and    pavements    slippy, 

From   Lippo  Lippi  to  Evelyn  Hope. 


Page  Sixty-four 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


When  winter's  arrow  pierced  to  the  marrow, 
And  thought  was  narrow,  you  gave  it  room ; 

We  guessed  the  warder  on  Roland's  border, 
And  helped  to  order  the  Bishop's  Tomb. 

When  winds  were  harshish,  and  ways  were  marshish, 
We  found  with  Karshish  escape  at  need; 

Were  bold  with  Waring  in  far  seafaring, 
And  strong  in  sharing  Ben  Ezra's  creed. 

We  felt  dark  menace  of  lovers  pen  us, 

Afloat  in  Venice,  devising  fibs; 
And  little  mattered  the  rain  that  pattered, 

While  Blougram  chattered  to  Gigadibs. 

And  we  too  waited  with  heart  elated 

And  breathing  bated,  for  Pippa's  song; — 

Saw  Satan  hover  with  wings  to  cover 
Porphyria's  lover,  Pompilia's  wrong. 

Long  thoughts  were  started,  when  youth  departed 
From   the  half-hearted  Riccardi's  bride; 

For,  saith  j^our  fable,  great  Love  is  able 
To  slip  the  cable  and  take  the  tide. 

Or  truth  compels  us  with  Paracelsus, 

Till  nothing  else  is  of  worth  at  all, 
Del  Sarto's  vision  is  our  own  mission. 

And  art's  ambition  is  God's  own  call. 

Through  all  the  seasons,  you  gave  us  reasons 
For  splendid  treasons  to  doubt  and  fear; 

Bade  no  foot  falter,  though  weaklings  palter. 
And  friendships  alter,  from  year  to  year. 

Since  first  I  sought  you,  found  you  and  brought  you, 
Hugged  you  and  brought  you  home  from  Cornhill, 

While  some  upbraid  you,  and  some  parade  you, 
Nine  years  have  made  you  my  master  still. 

Published  by  kind  permission  of  the  author  and  publishers 


Pagt   Sixty-fivt 


HOMAGE        TO 


THE  WOMEN  OF  BROWNING 
By  Sivori  Levey 

The  Ghosts  of  Browning's  Women  pass  before  my  dream- 
ing sight, — 

Pauline,  the  Soul's  Confessor;  and  with  songs  of  heart's 
delight 

Young  Pippa  passes; 

Now  Ottima  and  Phene  take  their  shape  within  my  mind. 
And    the    friend    of    Paracelsus,    faithful    Michal; — just 
behind 

Some  laughing  lasses; 

And  Evelyn  Hope,  the  golden-haired ;  Count  Gismond's 

bride  from  France; 
Porphyria   fair    (her   neck   entwined)    with    ever-trustful 

glance, 

And  My  Last  Duchess; 

Domizia,    and    Eulalia,   with   all   their   doubts  dispelled ; 
And   James   Lee's  lonely,   melancholy  wife  whose   heart 
is  held 

In  Sorrow's  clutches; 

Artemis,  classic  goddess;  and  the  sweet  Balaustion  now 
Approaches  with  the  wreath  of  Athens'  favours  on  her 
brow ; 

Then  Klutemnaistra ; 
Anael ;  Mildred  Tresham;  Violante — still  distressed — 
And  the  Spirit  of  Pompilia  comes  her  baby  at  her  breast, 

No  foes  to  pester  her; 
Madame  Riel,  the  Belle  Aurore;  the  Gipsy-Soul,  Fifine; 
Then  one  in  gorgeous  Eastern  robes,  'tis  Balkis,  Sheba's 
Queen, 

So  wise  and  placid ; 
Colombe;  then  Kate  from  Cyprus;   the  Riccardi's  bride 

comes  too; 
Dove-like,  the  dainty  Duchess,  and  the  Yellow  Duchess, 
who 

Looks  grim  and  acid! 


Pa^e  Sixty -six 


HOMAGE        TO 


The   Faultless   Painter's   wayward    wife;   Court    Ladies, 

one,  two,  three. 
Good  Wives  and  Bad  Wives,  high  and  low,  from  France 

and  Italy, 

With   husband,  lover, — 
The   Queen   and    Constance,    Beatrice,    and    Christina, — 

still  they  come 
With  others,  see,  from  Florence,  and   from  Venice,  and 

from  Rome     .... 
My  dream  is  over. 

From  the  Journal  of  the  Robert  Browning  Guild — Vol. 
I,  No.  I,  (1914),  p.  20;  published  luith  permission 
of  the  author. 


SONNET  ON   BROWNING'S   MASTERPIECE 
"THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK" 

By  Ruth  Baldwin  Chenery 

O  Ring,  no  slender,  narrow  circlet,  thou ! 
Enwrought  thou  liest  firm  and  massive  there, 
Welded  of  virgin  gold;  some  craftsman  rare 
Enrich  thee  thus,  mayhap  for  marriage  vow. 

Old  Yellow  Book,  the  centuries  allow 
A  thousand  readers,  and  but  one  aware 
Thou  hadst  a  soul ;  when  in  that  Florence  square 
*The  wind  of  inspiration  swept  his  brow: 

Behold,   O  ye  the  Poet's  voice  awakes, 
Another  Ring,  from  gold  was  never  mined, 
To  guard  his  singer's  "golden  verse"  he  said ; 

Another  Book,  which  tells  that  morning  breaks, 
With  Phosphor-star  of  Truth,  for  humankind; 
This  Ring  and  Book,  forever  shall  be  wed. 

*"A  spirit  laughs  and  leaps  through  every  limb. 
And  lights  my  eye,  and  lifts  me  by  the  hair." 

From  "At  Vesper  Time,"  p.  52;  ivith  permission  of  the 
author. 

Page   Sixty-seven 


HOMAGE        TO 


AN  ODE  FOR  THE  CENTENARY  OF  THE 
BIRTH  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  George  Sterling 

As  unto  lighter  strains  a  boy  might  turn 

From  where  great  altars  burn 

And  Music's  grave  archangels  tread  the  night, 

So  I,  in  seasons  past, 

Loved  not  the  bitter  might 

And   merciless  control 

Of  thy  bleak  trumpets  calling  to  the  soul. 

Their  consummating  blast 

Held  inspirations  of  affright, 

As  when  a  faun 

Hears  mournful  thunders  roll 

On  breathless,  wide  transparencies  of  dawn. 

Nor  would   I   hear 

With  thee,  superb  and  clear 

The  indomitable  laughter  of  the  race; 

Nor  would  I  face 

Clean  truth,  with  her  cold  agates  of  the  well. 

Nor  with  thee  trace 

Her  footprints  passing  upward   to   the  snows, 

But    sought    a    phantom    rose 

And  islands  where  the  ghostly  siren  sings; 

Nor  would  I  dwell 

Where   star-forsaking  wings 

On  mortal  thresholds  hide  their  mystery, 

Nor  watch  with  thee 

The  light  of  heaven  cast  on  common  things. 

But  now  in  dreams  of  day  I  see  thee  stand 

A  grey,  great  sentry  on  the  encompassed  wall 

That  fronts  the  Night  forever,  in  thy  hand 

A  consecrated   spear 

To  test  the  dragons  of  man's  ancient  fear 

From  secret  gulfs  that  crawl — 

A  captain  of  that  choral  band 

Whose  reverend  faces,  anxious  of  the  Dark, 

Yet  undismayed 

By  rain  of  ruined  worlds  against  the  night. 

Turned   evermore  to  hark 

The  music  of  God's  silence,  and  were  stayed 

By  something  other  than  the  reason's  light. 

Page  Sixty- eight 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


And  I  have  seen  thee  as 

An  eagle,  strong  to  pass 

Where  tcmpest-shapen  clouds  go  to  and  fro 

And  winds  and  noons  have  birth, 

But  whose  regard  is  on  the  lands  below 

And  wingless  things  of  earth. 

And  yet  not  thine  for  long 

The  feigned  passion  of  the  nightingale. 

Nor  shards  of  haliotis,  nor  the  song 

Of  cymballed  fountains  hidden  in  the  dale. 

Nor  gardens  where  the  feet  of  Fragrance  steal : 

'Twas  thine  the  laying-on  to  feel 

Of  tragic  hands  imperious  and  cold, 

That,  grasping,  led  thee  from  the  dreams  of  old, 

Making  thee  voyager 

Of  seas  within  the  cosmic  solitude, 

Whose  moons  the  long-familiar  stars  occlude — 

Whose  living  sunsets  stir 

With  visions  of  the  timelessness  we  crave. 

And  thou  didst  ride  a  wave 

That  gathered  solemn  music  to  its  breast, 

And,  breaking,  shook  our  strand  with   thought's   unrest, 

Till  men  far  inland  heard  its  mighty  call 

Where  the  young  mornings  vault  the  world's  blue  wall. 

Nature  hath  lonely  voices  at  her  heart 

And  some  thou  heardst,  for  at  thine  own 

Were  chords  beyond  all  Art 

That  stir  but  to  the  eternal  undertone. 

But  not  necessitous  to  thee 

The  dreams  that  were  when  Arcady  began 

Or  Paphos  soared  in  iris  from  the  sea; 

For  thou  couldst  guess 

The  rainbows  hidden  in  the  frustrate  slime, 

And  saw'st  in  crownless  Man 

A  Titan   scourged   through  Time 

With  pains  and  raptures  of  his  loneliness. 

And  thou  wast  wanderer 

Tn  that  dim  House  that  is  the  human  heart, 

Where  thou  didst  roam  apart, 

Seeing  what  pillars  were 

Between  its  deep  foundations  and  the  sun. 

What  halls  of  dream  undone. 

What  seraphs  hold  compassionate  their  wings 

Before  the  youth  and  bitterness  of  things 

Ere  all  see  clear 

The  gain  in  loss,   the  triumph   in   the  tear. 

Page  Sixty-nine 


HOMAGE       TO 


Time's  whitest  loves  lie  radiant  in  thy  song, 

Like  starlight  on  an  ocean,  for  thine  own 

Was  as  a  deathless  lily  grown 

In  Paradise — ethereal  and  strong. 

And   to   thine  eyes 

Earth  had  no  earth  that  held  not  haughty  dust, 

And  seeds  of  future  harvestings  in  trust, 

And  hidden  azures  of  eventual  skies. 

Yet  hadst  thou  sharper  strains, 

Even  as  the  Power  determines  us  with  pains. 

And,  seeing  harvests,  saw'st  as  well  the  chaff. 

And,  seeing  Beauty,  saw'st  her  shames  no  less, 

Loosing  the  sweet, 

High  thunder  of  thy  Jovian  laugh 

On  souls  purblind  in  their  self-righteousness. 

O  vision  wide  and  keen ! 

Which  knew,  untaught,  that  pains  to  jo3^ance  are 

As  night  unto  the  star 

That  on  the  effacing  dawn  must  burn  unseen. 

And  thou  didst  know  what  meat 

Was  torn  to  give  us  milk. 

What  countless  w^orms  made  possible  the  silk 

That  robes  the  mind,  what  plan 

Drew  as  a  bubble  from  old  infamies 

And   fen-pools  of  the  past 

The  shy  and  many-colored  soul  of  man. 

Yea!  thou  hast  seen  the  lees 

In  that  rich  cup  we  lift  against  the  day. 

Seen  the  man-child  at  his  disastrous  play — 

His  shafts  without  a  mark, 

Pi;is  fountains  flowing  downward  to  the  dark, 

His  maiming  and  his  bars. 

Then  turned  to  see 

His  vatic  shadow  cast  athwart  the  stars. 

And  his  strange  challenge  to  infinity. 

But  who  am  I  to  speak. 

Far  down  the  mountain,  of  its  altar-peak, 

Or  cross  on  feeble  wings, 

Adventurous,  the  oceans  in  thy  mind? 

We  of  a  wider  day's  bewilderings 

For  very  light  seem  blind, 

And  fearful  of  the  gods  our  hands  have  formed. 

Some  lift  their  eyes  and  seem 

To  see  at  last  the  lofty  human  scheme 

Fading  and  toppling  as  a  sunset  stormed 

Page  Seventy 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


By  wind  and  evening,  with  the  stars  in  doubt. 

And  some  cry,  On  to  Brotherhood!      And  some, 

(Their  Dream's  high  music  dumb) 

Nay!  let  us  hide  in  roses  all  our  chains, 

Tho'  all  the  lamps  go  out! 

Let  us  accept  our  lords! 

Time's  tensions  move  not  save  to  subtler  pains! 

And  over  all  the  Silence  is  as  swords     .     .     . 

Wherefore  be  near  us  in  our  day  of  choice, 

Lest  Hell's  red  choirs  rejoice; 

And  may  our  counsels  be 

More  wise,  more  kindly,  for  the  thought  of  thee; 

And  may  our  deeds  attest 

Thy  covenant  of  fame 

To  men  of  after-years  that  see  thy  name 

Held  like  a  flower  by  Honor  to  her  breast. 

Thy  station  in  our  hearts  long  since  w^as  won — 

Safe  from  the  jealous  years — 

Thou  of  whose  love,  thou  of  whose  thews  and  tears 

We  rest  most  certain  when  the  day  is  done 

And  formless  shadows  close  upon  the  sun! 

Thou  wast  a  star  ere  death's  long  night  shut  down, 

And  for  thy  brows  the  crown 

Was  graven  ere  the  birth-pangs,  and  thy  bed 

Is  now  of  hallowed  marble,  and  a  fane 

Among  the  mightier  dead: 

More  blameless  than   thine  own  w^hat  soul  hath  stood! 

Dost  thou  lie  deaf  until  another  Reign, 

Or  hear  as  music  o'er  thy  head 

The  ceaseless  trumpets  of  the  war  for  Good  ? 

Ah,  thou!  ah,  thou! 

Stills  God   thy  question  now? 

Published  ivith  permission  of  the  author. 

A  FAREWELL 

A    Translation 

By  Henry  Trantham 

Not  a  fretful  tear  shall  fall  for  thee  in  parting. 

Now  that  thou  hast  made  thy  race; 
For  such  a  song  of  triumph  hast  thou  left  us 

As  one  who  goes  to  greet  a  loving  master  face  to  face. 

Page  Seventy-one 


HOMAGE        TO 


TO  BROWNING  THE  MUSIC-MASTER 

By  Robert  Haven  Schauffler 

O  I  once  was  a  lad 

Of  a  single   thought, 

Melody-mad, 

With  ears  for  naught 

But  the  miracles  Bach  and  Beethoven  wrought, 

When  suddenly  you — 

Out  of  the  blue — 

With  the  crabbed  old  master  Galuppi,  dropped. 

And  grim-eyed  Hugues 

Of  the  mountainous  fugues, 

And  the  rampired  walls  of  the  marvelous  Abt, — 

To  fashion  me  straight  from  Tone's  far  strand 

A  way  to  a  humaner,  dearer  shore, — 

A  bridge  to  poetry-land. 

Then  to  my  soul  I  swore: 

'If  poets  may  win  such  store 

Of  music's  own  highland  air, 

Yet  abide  in  the  common  round, 

Transmuting  man's  dusty  ground 

To  gems  for  the  world  to  wear, — 

Theirs,  too,   is  a  precious  art, 

Is  a  thing  that  I  fain  would  share, — 

A  thing  that  is  near  to  my  heart! 

Thus  were  a  young  soul's  ears  unstopped 

By  Galuppi  and   Hugues  and  the  marvelous  Abt, 

Who  bridged  a  way  for  ignorant  feet. 

And  parted  wide  for  wondering  eyes 

The  port  of  a  second  paradise; 

Showing  how  right  it  is,  and  meet 

That  a  Shubert's  voice  may  never  repeat 

"^Vhat  a  Shakespeare's  lips  once  solemnize; — 

That  music  waxes  where  poesy  wanes. 

And,  with  thirsty  lips  to  poesy's  veins. 

Grows  by  her  want,  by  her  wasting,  gains. 

For  the  protean  art  is  this,  and  this! 
The  rainbow  shimmer  of  love's  young  bliss, 
A  gesture  despairing,  a  dream-like  whim, 
The  down  on  the  plumes  of  the  cherubim, 

Page  Seventy'two 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


The  body  of  Ariel,  lissome  and  fresh, 

Too  subtle  for  poesy's  golden  mesh, 

An  exquisite,  evanescent  shape 

That  'breaks  through  language'  to  escape 

To  the  bourne  of  that  country,  brighter,  vaster, 

Where  now  you  are  singing,  dear  Music-Master. 

Published  ivith  the  permission  of  the  author. 


"NOTHING  BUT  A  POET"* 

By  W.  C.  Gannett 

"Nothing  but  a  poet," — so  he  said,  and  wondered 
At  the  sole  persistence  of  his  years. 

Laughing  world,  you'll  know  it,  now  that,  silence-sun- 
dered, 
He  is  in  the  welcome  of  his  peers. 

What  said  Milton  to  him,  what  said  Keats  and  Shaksperc? 

Oh,  to  see  the  smile  on  Dante's  face! 

Catch  the  great  Greek  "Chaire",  hear  the  "bronze  throat" 

hail  him, 
"Browning's  come  among  us, — give  him  place!" 

"Nothing  but  a  poet," — singing  songs  of  soul-growth, 
Splendor  in  the  pain-throb,  rise  in  fall, 
"Saul  the  failure"  in  us  re-creating  kingly, — 
Songs  one  surge  of  morning; — that  was  all! 

Camberiuell  Venice 

May  7,  i8i2  December  12,  1889 

^Written  for  the  Brozvnin^  Memorial  Meeting  in  Recital 
Hall,  Auditorium  Building,   Chicago,  Feb,   27,    1890- 


Page  Seventy-thrM 


HOMAGE        TO 


THE  SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 

By  Neeta  Marquis 

Coined  from  the  treasure  of  a  woman's  heart, 

For  him  whose  love  had  crowned  her  with  delight, 

Uplifting  her  by  force  of  its  pure  might 

From  solitary  ways,  where  Joy,  apart 

From  her  pale  sister  Sorrow,  was  not  known ; — 

Rare  aureate  words  graved  with  the  High  Queen's  face, 

Still  current  in  true-love's  exchanging  place, 

And  with  much  using  but  the  brighter  grown! 

O  poetry  of  life!     O  blessed  quill 

That  fixed  such  golden  thoughts!    Their  messages. 

Imbued  with  passion  delicate  and  strong, 

Are  love's  most  lovely  fashioning  in  song, 

Conveying  through  the  spirit's  finer  thrill 

The  pressure  of  her  human  lips  on  his. 


"CHILDE   ROLAND" 

By  Humphreys  Park 

You  set  the  slug-horn  to  your  lips  and  blew, 

And  after — what  came  after?     Did  it  fade, 

The  round  squat  turret,  and  some  deeper  shade 

Of  evening  drench  to  blackness  the  curst  view? 

Or  did  some  sinister  strange  thing,  some  rue 

Of  shape  unspeakable,  come  forth,  that  made 

You  fetch  quick  breath,  and  grasp  the  loose-slung  blade, 

And  pray  at  last  your  soul  prove  not  untrue? 

That  there  was  fight  there,  taunting  face  to  face. 
Hell's  hatred  matched  against  one  proud  soul's  scorn, 
We  guess,  but  not  how  went  the  fight's  disgrace 
Yet,  to  our  fancy  is  the  wonder  borne 
That  you  came  forth  unscathed,  and  left  the  place 
A-ring  with  the  shrill  mocking  of  your  horn. 

From  Appletons.  '' 

Page  Seventy-four 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


BROWNING 

By  Theo  Stone 

Oh  England,  mother  of  that  flame-crowned  race, 

High  priests  of  song,  who  nurtured  on  thy  breast 

Live  on  Immortal, — Browning  with  the  rest, 

Proud  of  thine  ownership  lift  up  thy  face 

His  birthday  on  Time's  shining  page  to  trace, 

Whose  song,  like  thunder  of  the  heavens,  has  pressed 

Magnificently  onward   East  and  West 

Till  in  Fame's  citadel  it  has  found  place. 

Fitting  his  advent  to  the  world  of  men 

The  nightingales  should  chorus  near  and  far 

Who  into  Epics  sang  them  back  again. 

Enrapturing  springs  that  ages  cannot  mar; 

And  set  thy  heavens  to  music,  with  a  pen 

Dipt  in  the  flooding  splendor  of  a  star. 


TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Mabel  Barnett  Gates 

Thou  poet  lover  of  humanity, 

Cause  us  to  see  through  thy  illumined  sight 

The  heart  of  e'en  the  lowest  of  our  kind 

And  with  a  pitying  smile,  like  God,  forgiveness  find. 

Inspire  us  with  the  glory  of  a  soul 

Of  one  of  God's  highest.     May  we  respond 

With  aspiration  high  and  noble  longing 

To  thoughts  exalted  that  to  our  hearts  come  thronging. 

May  we,  through  thy  heart's  truest  alchemy, 

Transmute  each  base  thing  into  gold  so  bright 

That  evil  fades  in  the  effulgent  glow 

And   naught  but   good   endures  through   centuries  slow. 

May  thy  clear  vision  reveal  to  our  dull  sense 
Ultimate  Truth  and  Beauty  that  are  our  goal. 


Page  Seventy-five 


HOMAGE        TO 


THE  GIRL  WITH  THE  BLUE  EYES 

To  Miss  Sarah  LeMoyne  Cowell,  to   Whom  Browning 
Gave  This  Name. 

By  Anna  Catherine  Markham 

Venice  and  Browning,  youth  and  you — 

You  with  his  sister's  and  his  mother's  name, 

And  he  took  note  of  that  vivid  blue 

Alive  in  your  eyes,  that  noon-sky  flame, 

Like  the  turquoise  blaze — the  azure  royal, 

Quick  in  the  drift-wood  fire  aglow; 

And  put  report  of  that  sapphire  shining, 

Nemophila,  gentian,  lupin,  ablow, 

Off  (who  knows)  with  spoils  of  far  and  near — 

Your  eyes,  and  Evelyn's  red  young  mouth. 

Yes,  and  Fifine's  rose-petal  ear. 

And  the  spirit-brow  of  her  in  the  South — 

All  heaped  in  some  magical,  secret  place. 

Trick  and  turn,  and  light  and  shade, — 

Memories  hoarded  and  brooded  to  build 

Those  myriad-mooded,  wild-word  women  he  made. 


BROWNING  AND  SHELLEY 
By  E.  D.  W.* 

Strong  poet  soul,  thou  yearnest  to  thy  friend 

That  other  poet  soul  elect  by  thee 

For  worship  in  that  deep  affinity 

Wherein  two  human  natures  seek  to  blend, 

And  set  their  opposite  forces  to  one  end. 

It  had  been  surely  good  for  earth  if  he, 

While  dwelling  in  that  flesh  thou  ne'er  didst  see. 

Had  in  his  need  had  help  thy  strength  could  lend, 

(Help  better  far  than  that  wild  deaf  "west  wind" 

Whereto  in  loneliness  went  out  his  cry 

That  meant  a  seeking  for  his  God  unknown — ) 

Good  will  it  be  for  heaven  when  thou  shalt  find 

Thy  Shelley  there, — and  two  souls,  drawing  nigh, 

Perfect  together  things  each  wrought  alone. 

August,  1872. 

*E.  D.  TV.  {Elizabeth  Dickinson  West)  is  now 
Mrs.  Edward  Dowden  of  Dublin. 

Page  Sexjsnty-^ix 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Frances  Whitmarsh  Wile 

You  bid  me  pledge  a  poet  in  the  fruitage  of  the  vine: 
I  give  you  one  whose  music  is  the  vigor  of  your  wine, 
The   charging   blast   of   bugles  when   the   standards   are 

unfurled, 
The  air  from  hill-tops  bearing  a  new  life  along  the  world ; 
Whose  lyric  lilts  of  passion  are  the  breath  of  roses  blown, 
Whose  gospel  recreates  the  heart  wherein  its  light  hath 

shone. 

His  men  and  women,  summoned  from  the  mists  of  long 

ago, 
Lay  bare  before  our  vision  heights  and  deeps  of  joy  and 

woe: 
Abt  Vogler  builds  his  palace,  and  young  Pippa,  passing, 

sings, 
Euripides  is  chanting,  and  the  harp  of  David  rings: 
Where  lost  ones  lie  in  Paris  on  Setebos'  magic  isle. 
He  sees,  through  death  and  darkness,  Love's  illuminating 

smile. 

One  thread  binds  all  the  dramas  and  the  stories  that  are 
told, 

One  thread  is  always  throbbing  through  the  music  mani- 
fold: 

The   Soul   of  Man   aspiring,   and  the  striving  to   attain, 

The  failure  proving  triumph,  and  the  growth  that  comes 
by  pain ; 

Supreme  and  crucial  moments  that  are  earth's  divining 
wand. 

The  finite's  deathless  yearning  toward  the  Infinite  beyond. 

No  sigh  of  resignation  and  no  wailing  of  despair. 

But  splendid  affirmation   of  the  worth   of  life  is  there. 

He  breasts  the  fate  that  baffles  while  he  pours  in  eager 

strains 
His  faith  the  Love  shall  conquer,  that  the  Lord  forever 

reigns. 
To  the  man  of  full  assurance,  of  a  jubilance  divine. 
To  the  Master,  Robert  Browning,  do  I  pledge  this  cup 

of  mine. 


Page  Seventy-seven 


HOMAGE        TO 


ROBERT  BROWNING 
By  Aubrey  de  Verb 

Mourn,  Italy,  with  England  mourn,  for  both 
He  sang  with  song's  discriminating  love, 
Thy  towers  that  flash  the  wooded  crag  above; 
Thy   trellised   vineyard's   purple  overgrowth; 
Thy  matin  balm;  thy  noontide's  pleasing  sloth; 
Thy  convent  bell,  dim  lake,  and  homeward  dove; 
Thine  evening  star,  that  through  the  bowered  alcove 
Silvers  the  white   flight  of  the  circling  moth. 
He  sang  thy  best  and  worst — false  love,  fierce  war, 
Renaissance  craft,  child  graces,  saintly  art. 
Old  pomps  from  "Casa  Guidi  Windows"  seen. 
There  dwelt  he  happy;  there  that  minstrel  queen, 
Who  shared  his  poet  crown  but  gladdened  more 
To  hold,  unshared,  her  poet's  manly  heart. 

From  the  Dedication  of 

THE  WANDERER 

By  Owen  Meredith 

24. 

"And,  citing  all  he  said  or  sung 
With  praise  reserved  for  bards  like  him, 
Spake  of  that  friend  who  dwells  among 
The  Apennine,  and  there  hath  strung 
A  harp  of  Anakim; 

25. 
"Than  whom  a  mightier  master  never 
Touch'd  the  deep  chords  of  hidden  things; 
Nor  error  did  from  truth  dissever 
With   keener   glance;   nor   made   endeavour 
To  rise  on  bolder  wings 

26. 

"In  those  high  regions  of  the  soul 

Where  Thought  itself  grows  dim  with  awe." 

From  Broivning  Society  Papers,  Part  2,  p.   146. 
Page  Seventy-eight 


HOMAGE        TO 


THE  TIME  AND  THE  PLACE 

By  Bliss  Carman 

"Never  the  time  and  the  place 
And  the  loved  one  all  together!" 
Ah,  Browning,  that  does  to  tell! 
But  I  have  an  eagle  feather 
Hid  in  my  vi^aistcoat  too. 

Yes,  once  in  the  wild  June  weather, 
In  God's  own  North  befell 
The  joy  not  time  shall  undo 
Nor  the  storm  of  years  efface. 

Ah,   Master  Browning,  you  hear? 

If  over  the  time  and  the  place 

With  aught  of  thy  mood  concur. 

Far  off  in  my  golden  year, 

The  solstice  of  my  prime, 

Youth  done,  age  not  begun, 

The  moment  that  soul  is  ripe 

For  the  little  touch  of  rhyme. 

Then  hearken!    If  there  but  stir 

One  breath  of  the  Spirit  of  earth 

Through  me  his  frail  reed  pipe, 

(As  the  hermit-thrush 

Rehearses  the  scene  when  the  joy  of  the  world 

had  birth. 
So  sure,  so  fine. 
Disturbing  the  hush,) 
You  shall  hearken,  and  hear 
Take  rapture  and  sense  and  form  in  one  perfect 

line 
A  golden  lyric  of  Her! 

From  The  Month,  January,  1 897. 

IN  A  COPY  OF  "AGAMEMNON   LA  SAISIAZ 
AND  DRAMATIC  IDYLS" 

By  B.  p.  Shillaber  (Mrs.  Partington) 

A  merry  Christmas  I  send  with  this, 
Though  it  seems  absurdity  crowning 
To  wish  for  cachinatory  bliss 
Over  the  works  of  Browning. 
From  The  Brownings  and  America,  p.  44. 

Page  Sevtnty-nine 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


BROWNING  SOCIETY 

By  George  Jay  Smith 

Says  the  wise  old  maxim,  a  man  is  known 
By  his  company;  then  of  a  poet 
As  truly  we  say  that  his  creatures  alone, 
That  are  born  of  his  soul,  can  show  it. 

Touched  by  this  stone,  how  much  pure  gold 
Spring  forth  from  the  dross,  and  shimmers? 
In  poems  today  as  in  those  of  old, 
All  is  not  gold  that  glimmers! 

Can  a  man  create,  can  he  bring  to  birth 
Live  humans,  hearts  a-beating, 
As  Shakspere  gave  to  this  gray  dull  earth 
Orlando  and  Rosalind  meeting? — 

Or  as  Meredith  summoned  for  our  delight 
Young  Richard  and  Lucy — Diana — 
The  knowing  of  whom  feeds  the  soul  with  the  white 
And  sweet  of  a  heaven-sent  manna? 

Many  sing  of  nature,  and  some 

Of  art:  but  few  are  the  singers 

Who  picture  us  human  life.     .     .     .     such  come 

To  the  world  as  the  manna-bringers. 

How  secure  in  the  rank  of  these  he  stays 
Whom  the  dear  British  public  would  none  of — 
That   "Robert    Browning,    maker   of    plays" — 
What  a  high  small  group  he's  one  of! 

For  tried  by  the  test  of  humanness, 
And  of  art  that's  divinely  creative. 
How  clear  he  emerges  above  the  press 
Of  singers  less  strong,  less  native! 

There  was  scanned  by  his  mind  the  roll  of  the  race 
In  the  shining  vista  of  history, 
And  all  that  he  touched  re-lives  in  its  place. 
Revealed,  and  pluckt  of  its  mystery. 

He  ranged  through  Greece,  Arabia,  Rome, 
Read  the  rich  romance  of  the  ages 
That  rise  to  the  Renaissance,  and  the  tome 
Of  his  own  Day's  crowded  pages. 

Fage  Eightf 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


And  all  that  life  of  his  fellowmcn, 
As  lit^ht   maiiy-huctl   through  a  prism, 
Passed  throuiih  his  soul  and  fjlowed  aj^iain, 
Renewed  in  the  poet's  chrism. 

He  let  speak  Adam  and  Lilith  and   Eve, 
Voiced   Solomon's,   Sheba's,  yearning, 
Made  the  song  of  David's  harp  relieve 
The  lone  king  Saul  of  his  burning: 

He  entered  the  heart  of  Euripides, 
Englished  the  Aeschylan  drama. 
Apologized  Aristophanes, — 
Unrolled  the  Greek  panorama: 

Gave  us  Ferishtah,  the  Persian  wise. 
Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  and  Cleon, 
Let  old  Paracelsus  our  blindness  advise 
How  past  earth's  mists  we  may  see  on: 

Told  the  tale  of  the  Piper,  or  Herve  Riel, 
Of  Lippo,  of  ill-starred  Porphyria, 
Of  the  Bishop  who  ordered  his  tomb  so  well — 
Fit  story  for  "Jocoseria" : 

Delved  to  the  depths  of  Caliban's  mire. 
Heard  Sludge  the  medium's  droning, 
Let  light  Galuppi  re-tune  his  lyre, 
Abt  Vogler  his  organ's  toning: 

Parleyed   with    Dodlngton,    Christopher   Smart, 
And  Clive,  the  empire-builder. 
Made  Blougram  bare  his  episcopal  heart, 
Sordello  our  brains  bewilder: 

But  O,  how  he  rose  to  our  keenest  demand — 
The  test  of  art  highest-human — 
By  proving  that  he  could  understand. 
Reveal,  create  for  us,  woman — 

How  shine  in  a  galaxy  rich  of  scope, 
Enshrined  in  our  memorabilia, 
Pippa,  and  Colombe,  and  Evelyn  Hope, 
And  the  passionate  proud   Pompilia, 

That  sad  smiling  Duchess  we  know  as  "My  Last", 
And  she  whom  James  Lee  wedded. 
Sweet  Mildred  Tresham  whom  death  seized   fast, 
And  that  Countess  whom  Gismond  besteaded. 

Page   Eighty-one 


HOMAGE        TO 


But  enough!    What  need  call  the  roll  of  more  names! 
They  are  part  of  our  lives,  our  being. 
And   Robert  Browning  our  heart  acclaims 
As  the  maker,  the  poet,   true-seeing. 

The  scope  of  the  human  was  his  to  reveal, 
Whether  base  or  of  noblest  station ; 
How  men  and  women  live,  think,  feel. 
He  tells — that  is  true  creation! 

If  a  man  is  known  by  his  company,  then — 
The  maxim  admits  no  dubiety — 
These  creatures  of  Browning's,  women   and   men, 
Form   the  real   Browning  Society! 


CALIBAN  IN  THE  COAL  MINES 

By  Louis  Untermeyer 

God,  we  don't  like  to  complain. 
We  know  that  the  mines  are  no  lark, 
But — there's  the  pools  from  the  rain, 
But — there's  the  cold  and  the  dark. 

God,  you  don't  know  what  it  is, 
You,  in  Your  well-lighted  sky. 
Watching  a  meteor  whizz — 
Warm,  with  the  sun  always  by. 

God,  if  You  had  but  the  moon 

Stuck  in  Your  cap  for  a  lamp. 

Even  You'd  tire  of  it  soon 

Down  in  the  dark  and  the  damps     ,     .     . 

Nothing  but  blackness  above. 

And  nothing  that  moves  but  the  cars — 

God,  in  return  for  our  love. 

Fling  us  a  handful  of  stars! 

Published  with  permission  of  author. 
Page  Eighty-two 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


TO  MRS.  THOMAS   B.  STOWELL  AND 
MRS.  SIDNEY  J.  PARSONS 

From  the  Broivning  Department  of  Ebell,  1914-1918 

By  Blanche  Coles 

Through  four  delightful  years,  with  tender  care, 

Your  labors  have  wrought  out  a  friendship  ring 

Of  purest  gold,  bestudded   'round  with  rare 

Pearls  of  thought  from  the  eternal  spring 

Our  poet  found.     The  circle  now  is  done; 

The  gold  is  left  in  its  intrinsic  worth — 

For  all  the  dross  of  common  thought  is  gone — 

And  lo!  the  forged,  flashing  truth  flames  forth: 

Our  need  to  hold  eternal  things  was  great, 

And  in  our  strait  a  loving  God  has  given — 

While  maelstroms  lure   the  world  to  gloom  and   hate — 

This  golden  link  to  bind  us  fast  to  heaven. 

So  now  we  proffer  parting  words  'mid   tears. 
And  may  their  spirit  gladden  coming  years. 

SORDELLO 

By  Sanda  Enos 

Within  the  sea  of  Poesy  doth  lie 

An   isle   that  sheerly   doth   uplift  a  brow 

As  rough  and  uninviting,  I  avow, 

As  any  mariner  has  chanced  to  spy. 

W^ith  such  forbidding  looks  it  greets  the  eye 

That  many  who  the  waves  for  pleasure  plough, 

For  smiling  lands  beyond,  keep  straight  the  prow 

And  with  indifferent  glances  pass  it  by. 

'Tis  called  Sordello.     If  you  boldly  thread 
Its  thickets,  well  you  will  rewarded  be ; 
For  many  an  emerald  glade  you  will  behold, 
And  many  a  crystal  stream  with  sands  of  gold, 
And  you  will  hear  from  strange  birds  overhead 
Full  many  a  burst  of  deathless  melody. 

From   Browninir  Society   Papers.   Part   8,   />.    147;   /'//   the 
Current,    Chicago,    February    20,    1886. 

Page  Eighty-three 


HOMAGE        TO 


"JOCOSERIA" 

By  Richard  Watson  Gilder 

Men  grow  old  before  their  time, 
With  the  journey  half  before  them: 
In  languid  rhyme 
They  deplore  them. 

Life  up-gathers  carks  and  cares, 
So  goodbye  to  maid  and  lover! 
Find  three  gray  hairs, 
And  cry,  "All's  over!" 

Look  at  Browning!    How  he  keeps 
In  the  seventies  still  a  heart 
That   never  sleeps, — 
Still  an  art 

Full  of  youth's  own  grit  and  power. 
Thoughts  we  deemed  to  boys  belonging, — 
The  Springtime's  flower 
Love-and-longing. 

Published  zv'ith   the  kind  permission   of  the   Century 
Company  and  of  Houghton  Mifflin   Company. 


DJABAL'S  SONG 

By  Charlotte  Porter 

And  am  I  not  Hakeem,  though  man? 

Needs  it  a  God  to  plot  and  plan 

And  pour  his  heart  and  brain  and  soul 

Through  lonely  patient  scheming  years,  intent 

By  small  slow  conquests  to  control 

And  bring  to  birth,  at  last,  the  purpose  meant? 

Is  it  no  marvel  earth-like  stuff 

Compacts  a  sun  night's  blackness   to   rebuff? 

A  man  who  leads  is  miracle  enough! 

Taken  from — Lips  of  Music,  p.   115;  published  ivith  the 
permission   of  the  author. 

Page  Eighty-four 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


AT  FANO 

To  Robert  Broivning 

By  Rennell  Rood 

Dearly   honored,    great   dead    poet,    still    as    living   speak 

to  me! 
This  is  Fano,  world-forgotten  little  Fano  by  the  sea: 

I  have  come  to  see  that  angel  which  Guercino  dreamed 

and  drew, 
Since  whate'er  you  loved  and  honored  I  would  hold  in 

honor  too. 

Like    some    sea-bird's    nest    the    township    clusters    in    its 

rampart  wall, — 
Such  a  twilight  on  the  byways,  such  an  autumn  over  all : 

Gloomy  streets  with  silent  portals,  all  the  pulse  of  life 

they  hide. 
Throbbing  toward  that  one  piazza  where  it  centres  into 

pride; 

House  and  palace,  as  their  wont  is  in  these  Adriatic  ports, 
Turn  their  backs  on   darkling  alleys  and  their  faces  on 
the  courts, 

Courts   beyond   each   tunnelled   entrance,   where   through 

vaulted  arches  seen 
Glimpses    flash    of    dancing    sunlight,    jets    of    fountain, 

glint  of  green. — 
Here  I  found  him,  ever  watchful  for  the  work  of  love 

to  do, 
That  white-winged  one  whose  great  glory  you  interpreted 

so  true; 

Still  he  folds  the  little  fingers  of  that  kneeling  child  to 

prayer, 
On  the  grave  which  tells  the  story  why    it    needs    the 

angel's  care; 

Still    above   the    forehead's    glory    arch    the   great    wings 

wide  unfurled 
As  alert  to  shield  and  succor  all  the  orphans  of  the  world. 


Page  Eighty-five 


HOMAGE        TO 


Yet  hath  he  but  little  honor  in  his  home  at  Fano  there 
O'er  the  cold  neglected  altar  in  the  chapel  blanched  and 
bare  ; 

Few  come  here  to  read  his  message  in  the  little  nest  of 

towers, — 
Few  that  worship  where  he  watches,  none  that  deck  his 

shrine  with  flowers. 

Thence   I   passed   out   on   the   ramparts,    high   above   the 

olive   trees. 
Skirting  roofs  and  shadowy  belfries,  overlooking  evening 

seas. 

Into  such  a  rose  of  sunset,  such  a  tender  twilight  hue 
Where  the  orange  sails  came  homeward  on  the  Adriatic 
blue  ; 

Oh,  my  poet,  had  you  seen  it,  you  had  found  the  w^ord 

to  fit 
That  sweet  world   of  peace  at    even    with    God's    love 

unfolding  it! 

There  across  the  rose  of  sunset,  through  the  perfect  hush 

of  things 
Stole  a  gentle  rhythmic  motion   that  might  be  the  beat 

of  wings. — 

Art  thou   free  at   last,   dear  angel,   art  thou  free  to  fly 

above. 
Leave  that  little  one  to  slumber,  quit  the  duty  which  is 

love. 

Through  the  chiming  Ave  Mary  spread  those  bird  wings 

white  as  snow. 
Whether  starwards,  whether  sunwards,  be  the  way  their 

angels  go? 

One  more  service  yet,  dear  angel,  find  him  there  beyond 

the  blue, 
Tell  him  how  I  loved  the  message  he  interpreted  so  true! 

From   Volume  40  of  the  "Critic."     Published  with   the 
permission  of  the  editor. 


Page  Eighty-six 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


BROWNING  AT  ASOLO 

By  Robert  Underwood  Johnson 

This  is  the  lo^2;ia  Browninji;  loved, 

Hip:h  on  the  flank  of  the  friendly  town ; 

These  are  the  hills  that  his  keen  eye  roved, 

The  jrreen  like  a  cataract  leapinjz;  down 

To  the  plain  that  his  pen  gave  new  renown. 

There  to  the  West  what  a  range  of  blue! — 

The  very  background  Titian  drew 

To  his  peerless  Loves.     O  tranquil  scene! 

Who  than  thy  poet  fondlier  knew 

The  peaks  and  the  shore  and  the  lore  between? 

See!  yonder's  his  Venice, — the  valiant  Spire, 
Highest  one  of  the  perfect  three, 
Guarding  the  others;  the  Palace  Choir, 
The  Temple  flashing  with  opal  fire, — 
Bubble  and  foam  of  the  sunlit  sea. 

Yesterday  he  was  part  of  it  all, — 

Sat  here,  discerning  cloud  from  snow 

In  the  flush  of  the  Alpine  afterglow, 

Or  mused  on  the  vineyard  whose  wine-stirred  row 

Meets  in  leafy  bacchanal. 

Listen  a  moment — how  oft  did  he! — 

To  the  bells  from  Fontalto's  distant  tower 

Leading  the  evening  in     .     .      .      ah,  me! 

Here  breathes  the  whole  soul  of  Italy, 

As  one  rose  breathes  with  the  breath  of  the  bower. 

Sighs  were  meant  for  an  hour  like  this 
When  joy  is  keen  as  a  thrust  of  pain. 
Do  you  wonder  the  poet's  heart  would  miss 
This  touch  of  rapture  in  Nature's  kiss. 
And  dream  of  Asolo  over  again? 

'Tart  of  it  yesterday"  we  moan? 

Nay,  he  is  part  of  it  now,  no  fear. 

What  most  we  love  we  are  that  alone. 

His  body  lies  under  the  minster  stone, 

But  the  love  of  the  warm  heart  lingers  here. 

By  permission  from  "Italian  Rhapsody  and  Other  Poems 
of  Italy/'  published  by  the  author.  New  York:  347 
Madison  Ave. 

Page  Eighty-seven 


HOMAGE        TO 


ON  THE  BRONZE  CLASPED   HANDS   OF 

ROBERT  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT 

BROWNING 

By  Ruth  Baldwin  Chenery 

O,  Poet-hands,  so  closel}^  clasping  there 

In  that  mute,  shining  bronze,  that  shall  outlast 

Great  centuries  to  be  and,  holding  fast, 

Reveal  to  stranger  eyes  a  love  more  fair, 

More  even-weighted  for  each  heart  to  share, 

Than  any  classic  poet  of  the  past 

Has  sung  to  us,  in  mood  however  vast, 

Teach  then,  as  now,  clasped  hands,  that  love  is  prayer. 

And  when  this  bronze  in  farther  ages  still, 

Lies  ruined,  low,  shattered  in  golden  dust. 

Then  shall  the  love  it  storied  forth  so  long. 

Smiling  at  Death  and  Time,  move  to  fulfil 

Its  spacious  task,  moulding  in  joyous  trust 

Sublimer  purpose  in  sublimer  song. 

From — At  Vesper  Time,  p.  ^l,  with  permission  of  author. 


CLASPED  HANDS 

By  Anne  Cleveland  Cheney 

Hush!    Let  us  dream  awhile  now,  leaning  near 
This  wonder  of  two  hands  laid  each  in  each, 
Enduringly,  beyond  mutation's  reach, 
As  king  and  queen  lie  carven  on  one  bier. 
Thou   fragile  hand,  thou  strong — each  deathless  dear. 
E'en  all  those  living  songs,  that  quickening  speech. 
Have  not  more  potency  to  thrill  and  teach, 
Than  this  ineffably  sweet  emblem  here. 

So  clasped  forever,  that  the  world  may  know 
Such  union  was,  may  nevermore  forget; 
And  lovers  come  as  to  a  shrine  and  sigh, 
'So  did  their  faith  endure!'  and  softlier  go; 
And   poets  kneel   before  these   two   palms  met. 
To  shrive   themselves  and   pass  more   purely  by. 

Poet  Lore,  Winter  Number,  Vol.  ij.  No.  4.     Page  No. 
102,  and  published  with  permission  of  editors. 

Page  Eighty-eight 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


LEADERSHIP  IN  SONG 

By  Wallace  W.  Lovejoy 
Whom  as  leader  shall  we  name 
Worthy  of  the  highest  fame? 
Dante  Virgil  took  as  guide; 
They  made  the  journey  side  by  side. 
They  would  the  world-of-souls  explore, 
The  guide  had  been  that  way  before. 
Ye  who  would  like  journey  make 
A  great-souled  poet  needs  must  take. 


Browning,  when  I  met  with  thee, 

What  to  me  was  poesy? 

Jingling  rhymes  and  quaint  conceits, 

To  be  measured  off  by  beats. 

'Twas  my  terse  and  virile  thought 

That  a  better  judgment  taught. 

And  through  the  years  since  then  to  admit 

A  few  with  thee,  enranked,  to  sit — 

Whitman,  Wordsworth,   Meredith, 

As  masters  of  poetic  pith. 

Keats,  and  Shelley, — earlier  born. 

Who  through  darkness  sang  the  dawn. 

Their  singing  robes  still  on,  they  passed 

To  death ;  and  with  them,  Byron, — last. 

In  love  we  name  them  from  their  youth 

Still  hold  them  to  our  hearts  in  ruth. 


Though  no  singing  voice  awake, 
No  lofty  dream  the  silence  break, 
Worship  of  the  Muses  cease, 
Pandora's  direful  plagues  increase, — 
They  still  speak,  the  poet-dead. 
Reverently  their  shrines  we  tread 
And  through  the  silence  they  draw  nigh, 
The  ancient  bards  of  prophecy. 
And  thy  faith,  taught  from  above. 
Browning, — with  thy  'Lyric  Love', 
Unveiled  the  Face  that  clearer  grows — 
Our  universe  that  feels  and  knows. 

Page  Eighty -nine 


HOMAGE        TO 


TAKE  HOME  HER  HEART 

By  H.  D.  Rawnsley 

(A  sonnet  written  on  hearing  that  Robert  Brotvning's 
wish  to  be  buried  beside  his  wife  in  Florence  could  not  be 
fulfilled^  and  that,  instead,,  his  body  was  being  brought 
home  for  sepulture  in   Westminster  Abbey) 

I 

Take  home  the  heart!  her  heart  that  cannot  rest 
For  all   Italia's  southern-hearted   ground, 
Take  home  the  heart  that  fire  and   fullness  found 
In  that  sure  heart  which  still  would  be  its  guest. 
Take  home  her  heart!  the  heart  that  at  its  best 
Was  bettered  by  his  singing  whose  strong  sound 
Was  sweetened  by  her  song,  for  she  was  crowned 
Queen  of  a  heart  that  was  her  King  confessed. 

Hearts  such  as  these  have  never  ceased  their  beating. 

Hearts  such  as  these  by  sympathy  divine 

In   dust  will  palpitate  harmonious  measure, 

And  still  I  hear  a  spirit-voice  entreating 

Let  Arno  give  the  Thames  her  poet  treasure. 

One  grave  the  mortal  of  immortals  shrine! 

n 

From  Rivo  Alto's  silent  palace  hall, 
From    San    Michele's   wilderness   of   flowers, 
Comes  one  for  rest  beneath  our  Abbey  towers 
Whose  song  and  soul  shall  never  sleep  at  all: 
The  crown  of  Venice  shines  above  the  pall ; 
A  brighter  crown  thy  tireless  spirit  dowers; 
For  thy  strong  heart  the  weakest  heart  empowers 
To  "strive  and  thrive"  fare  forward,  though  we  fall. 

Singer  of  resolute  Right,  with  Might  for  squire. 
Might  for  the  morrow's  battle,  and  the  Must 
Of  Truth  triumphant  with  our  latest  breath, 
Lie  here;  for  gentle  Spenser  can  desire 
No  knightlier  guest,  nor  Chaucer  in  his  dust 
A  truer  harp:     Lie   here — here  comes   no   death. 

From  Browning  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  p.  49;  published 
with  permission   of  author. 


Page  Ninety 


ROBERT     BROWNING 

BROWNING'S   SHRINE 

By  John  Howard  Jewett 

Plain,  cloth-bound  volumes,   fit   for  homely  use — 
Brown  volumes,  with  their  titles  writ  in  gold, — 
Grown  sacred  now,  and  hallowed  ever  more, 
The  seal  of  death  new  stamped  across  the  name! 

These  front  me  on  the  shelves  where,  side  by  side. 
Great  poets  of  the  past  assembled  wait. 
With  grand  Te  Deums  for  the  listening  soul 
Attuned  to  strains  of  beauty,  love  and  truth; 
A  symphony  of  throbbing  human  chords, — 
Imprisoned  once  in  clay — poured  out  in  song, 
And  made  perennial,  for  our  starving  need. 
By  swift  informing  spirit,   clothed   in  speech. 
That  dies  not  with  the  breath. 

Recruited  ranks 
Of  grand,  immortal  names,  salute  your  peer, 
Who  now  has  come  to  join  the  star-crowned  choir! 
Tis  Browning,  latest  from  the  battle's  front, — 
Released    from   earth    to   share   your   immortelles, — 
Who  stands  beside  you,  clad  in  brown  and  gold. 


But  yesterday,  a  living,  loving  friend. 
Today  a  phantom,  fleeing  through  the  dark, 
A  poet  of  the  past. 

Nay!   Nay!   forgive 
The  impotence  of  rash,  misleading  words, 
Which  mock  the  ear  and  heart  with  false  alarms. 
Thou  art  not  dead,  can  never  die  the  death 
Which  locks  mortalitv  in  voiceless  tombs. 
No  past  can  claim  thee — singer  of  all  time; 
No  present  set  its  seal  upon  thy  worth. 
The  legions  of  the  future,  thronging  past, 
Shall  halt  to  catch  the  harmonies  divine. 
And  hear  and  know,  the  voice  that  dauntless  sang 
0(  love,  unblinded  by  the  tears  of  earth; 
Of  hope,  dispelling  clouds  of  darkest  gloom; 
Of  faith,  surviving  microscopic  tests, 
Unshaken  by  the  last  analysis 
Of  problems  old  or  new. 

Page  Ninety-one 


HOMAGE       TO 


Oh,  poet  seer, 
Who  dared  all  ages'  foibles  to  lay  bare; 
To  probe  the  wounds  of  frail  humanity, 
With   firmest  touch  of  skill — yet  loved   his   race; 
Its  heritage  of  darkness  made  his  own. 
To  wrestle  with,  to  conquer,  or  to  share. 
Uniting  with  life's  stern  philosophy 
The  brave,   triumphant,  steadfast  song  of  cheer! 

Strong,   fearless,  tender  Browning! — Singing  still. 
The  ages  yet  to  come  are  thine  to  bless; 
Theirs,  to  uprear  the  shrine  begun  to-day. 

P--''"*C'^^.-  •   -^      *  -       -    _ 

From  Boston  Evening  Transcript. 


ANAEL'S  SONG 

By  Charlotte  Porter 

I  knew  thy  secret  from  the  first, 

When  thy  heart's  fire  upon  me  burst. 

With  music  led  me  on  and  on 

Through  anguish,  gropingly  to  prove  the  clew, 

Till  sight  and  soul  in  unison 

Beheld  the  Secret  from  the  first  I  knew. 

No  triumph  with  the  God  be  mine! 

Hakeem,   in  Djabal  only,   I   divine — 

Love — in  that  sin-shamed  human  breast  of  thine! 

Taken  from — Lips  of  Music,  p.  ii6;  published  with  the 
permission  of  the  author. 


Page  Ninety-two 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


TO  ROBERT  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRE'O^ 
BROWNING 

By  Marion  Pelton  Guild 

I. 

O  mated  souls,  that  through  the  blissful  deeps 
Of  heaven  on  heaven  wing  your  ethereal  way, 
Know  ye  how  Love  on  earthly  shores  to-day 
For  your  true  sake  his  feast  in  triumph  keeps? 
Know  ye  how  all  the  world  of  lovers  heaps 
Its  garlands  on  the  living  words  that  aye 
The  holy  passion  of  your  vows  shall  say 
Till  Song  itself  to  gray  oblivion  creeps? 
The  alpha  and  omega  of  the  heart; 
The  perfect  scale,  to  its  first  note  returning; 
Each  fond  detail,  each  jot  of  life  or  art. 
Touched  with  the  fire  upon  the  altar  burning! 
While  Genius  smiles,  a  happy  prisoner,  caught 
In  silver  iterance  of  one  sweet  thought. 

II. 

Our  modern  Muse  hath  fever  in  her  veins; 

Her  lips,  alas!  have  known  the  tainted  springs; 
We  turn  afresh  to  where  your  fountain  flings 
Its  crystal  challenge  to  all  droughts  and  stains. 
Your  white  ideal,  crowned  with  the  truth,  remains 
Steadfast  amid  the  shock  of  baser  things; 
Your  love  the  golden  seal  of  witness  brings 
To  Nature's  charter  pure,  whereto  man  strains. 
Ah,  if  the  mighty  quests  that  now  possess  you 
Permit  one  pause  of  earth-revealing  sight. 
Surely  the  blessing  ye  have  wrought  must  bless  3'ou, 
A  keener  glow  inform  the  heavenly  light, 
Some  finer  echo  of  our  praise  must  ring 
In  those  infinitudes  where  Love  is  king! 

From  Atlantic  Monthly,  Vol.  86,  pp.  42O  and  421 ;  pub- 
lished with   permission  of  editors. 


Page  Ninety-three 


HOMAGE        TO 


IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  VATICAN 
Dedicated  to  the  New  York  Browning  Society 

By  Alice  Harriman 

The   Guide   Speaks 

Here  is  the  seat  whereon  His  Holiness 
Loves  best  to  sit — here  by  this  ilex  tree. 

Ofttimes  I've  v^^atched   the  care-lines  smooth   away 
Whilst  he  would  watch  the  yellow-banded  bees 
Sipping  the  honey  from  some  lily  rare; 
Or,  heavy-legged  with  the  dripping  sweet, 
Beat  throbbingly  their  gauzy  wings  in  homeward  flight. 

I've  seen  the  flying  shuttle  of  the  loom  we  call 
The  mind,  pass  and  repass  o'er  his  features  worn, 
Carrying  the  threads  of  care,  of  pain,  responsibility — 
Seldom  of  peace.  Ah,  me!  How  glints  it  'gainst  the  rest! — 
And  unbeknownst  to  him  I've  seen  him  weep. 

I'm  old,  and  hear  not  well. 
Find  peace?    Does  he  find  peace?    God  knows. 
That  comes  when   one  rests   full   on   God — when   every 

thought  is  prayer; 
So  he,  as  Vicar  General  of  the  World,  should  find 
It  as  the  bees  find  honey  in  each  weed  and  flower. 

Here!    Draw  you  back.    He  comes. 
Bend!    Cross  yourself! 

(My  idle  clack  will  penance  bring  in  the  confessional!) 

S-h-h!    Now  he's  gone.    And  as  I  live. 
He  came  to  get  that  book  you  saw  me  with  as  you 
passed  by. 

As  I  was  telling  you.    His  Holiness  finds  much 
To  grieve,  within,  without,  the  Vatican. 
La!  La!  E'en  yesterday  I  heard   (repeat  it  not  from  me) 
That  many  do  deny  infallibility! 

But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there  to  me; 
I  know  my  place,  nor  fret  myself  of  God  or  man. 

Page  Ninety-four 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


About  that  book?    Yes,  here's  the  matter  full: 
One  daj'  it  fell,  long,  long  ago, 
For  I  am  old,  yet  'twas  but  yesterday  it  seems, 
A  gentle  man,  and  grave, 

Paced  where  you  pace,  questioned,  as  you,  and  sighed. 
He  spoke  of  Asolo  (his  very  tones  breathed  love  for  Italy) , 
Of  some  Pope  of  the  past — his  name  escapes  me  now — 
And  said  the  book  he  held  was  one  he  wrote. 

It's  name?    I   know  not.    Printed   words  are  naught 
to  me. 

And  so  I  asked  what  he — no  Catholic — had  put 
him   down. 
I  know  not  how  he  spoke.    'Twas  as  an  inward  flame 
Burst  into  speech  as  sunset  clouds  catch  fire 
From  that  swift  falling  ball; 

And  as  he  read  my  very  soul  was  stirred  with  beauty, 
Although  the  words  meant  naught  to  me — 

I  doubt  me  an'  they  do  to  anyone. 

But,    here's   the   strangest   thing — I've   pondered    long 
on  it. 
He  left  his  book,  and  many  times  I've  seen 
His   Holiness  read  and   reread   that  book 
(As   did    the   one — God    rest   his   soul — preceding   him), 
With  frowning,  brooding  brow,  until  the  page  is  worn. 

Mayhap  he  reads  to  scorch  the  lie — if  'tis  a  lie. 
With  prayer  and  credo.   You,  with  your  largess 
(God's  blessing  fall  on  your  beneficence) 
May    know   the    rights   of    it — the    words   mean    naught 
to  me. 

(Although  I   use  words  as  a  man   of    parts,    I    pick 
them  up, 
As  yonder  parrot,  shrieking  in  the  sun.) 

Here's  what  the  man  said  ;  so — 

"Correct  the  portrait  by  the  living  face, 
Man's  God,  by  God's  God  in  the  mind  of  man." 

You  see!    'Tis  trash — mere  words. 
Yet  why  does  he.  His  Holiness, 
Reflect  on   these? 

Published  iiith  permission. 

Page  Ninety-five 


HOMAGE        TO 


A  SEQUENCE  OF  SONNETS  ON  THE  DEATH 
OF  ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

I, 

The  clearest  eyes  in  all  the  world  they  read 
With  sense  more  keen  and  spirit  of  sight  more  true 
Than  burns  and  thrills  in  sunrise,  when  the  dew 
Flames,  and  absorbs  the  glory  round   it  shed, 
As  they  the  light  of  ages  quick  and  dead, 
Closed  now,  forsake  us:  yet  the  shaft  that  slew 
Can  slay  not  one  of  all  the  works  we  knew, 
Nor  death  discrown  that  many-laurelled  head. 

The  works  of  words  whose  life  seems  lightning  wrought, 

And   moulded   of   unconquerable   thought, 

And  quickened  with  imperishable  flame. 

Stand  fast  and  shine  and  smile,  assured  that  nought 

May  fade  of  all  their  myriad-moulded  frame. 

Nor  England's  memory  clasp  not  Browning's  name. 

December  iph,  i88g. 

II. 

Death,  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  one  for  whom 

Time  is  not  lord,  but  servant?     What  least  part 

Of  all  the  fire  that  fed  his  living  heart. 

Of  all  the  light  more  keen  than  sundawn's  bloom 

That  lit  and  led  his  spirit,  strong  as  doom 

And  bright  as  hope,  can  aught  thy  breath  may  dart 

Quench?   Nay,  thou  knowest  he  knew  thee  what  thou  art, 

A  shadow  born  of  terror's  barren  womb. 

That  brings  not  forth  save  shadows.     What  art  thou. 

To  dream,  albeit  thou  breathe  upon  his  brow. 

That  power  on  him  is  given  thee, — that  thy  breath 

Can  make  him  less  than  love  acclaims  him  now. 

And  hears  all  time  sound  back  the  word  it  saith  ? 

What  part  has  thou  then  in  his  glon'.  Death? 

III. 
A  graceless  doom  it  seems  that  bids  us  grieve; 
Venice  and  winter,  hand  in  deadly  hand. 
Have  slain  the  lover  of  her  lovely  strand 
And  singer  of  a  storm-bright  Christmas  eve. 

Page  Ninety-six 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


A  graceless  guerdon  we  that  loved  receive 

For  all  our  love,  from  that  the  dearest  land 

Love  worshipped  ever.     Blithe  and  soft  and  bland, 

Too  fair  for  storm  to  scathe  or  fire  to  cleave, 

Shone  on  our  dreams  and  memories  evermore 

The  domes,  the  towers,  the  mountains  and  the  shore 

That  gird  or  guard  thee,  Venice:  cold  and  black 

Seems  now  the  face  we  loved  as  he  of  yore. 

We  have  given  thee  love — no  stint,  no  stay,  no  lack : 

What  gift,  what  gift  is  this  thou  hast  given  us  back? 

IV. 

But  he — to  him,  who  knows  what  gift  is  thine. 
Death?     Hardly  may  we  think  or  hope,  when  we 
Pass  likewise  thither  where  tonight  is  he, 
Beyond    the    Irremeable   outer   seas   that   shine 
And  darken  round  such  dreams  as  half  divine 
Some  sunlit  harbor  in  that  starless  sea 
Where  gleams  no  ship  to  windward  or  to  lee. 
To  read  \\ith  him  the  secret  of  thy  shrine. 
There  too,  as  here,  may  song,  delight  and  love. 
The  nightingale,  the  sea-bird,  and  the  dove. 
Fulfil  with  joy  the  splendor  of  the  sky 
Till  all  beneath  wax  bright  as  all  above: 
But  none  of  all  that  search  the  heavens,  and  try 
The  sun,  may  match  the  sovereign  eagle's  eye. 

December   14///. 
V. 

Among  the  wondrous  ways  of  micn  and  time 

He  went  as  one  that  ever  found  and  sought 

And  bore  in  hand  the  lamplike  spirit  of  thought 

To  illume  with  instance  of  its  fire  sublime 

The  dusk  of  many  a  cloudlike  age  and  clime. 

No  spirit  in  shape  of  light  and  darkness  wrought, 

No  faith,  no  fear,  no  dream,  no  rapture,  nought 

That  blooms  In  wisdom,  nought  that  burns  in  crime. 

No  virtue  girt  and  armed  and  helmed  with  light. 

No  love  more  lovely  than  the  snows  are  white. 

No  serpent  sleeping  in  some  dead  soul's  tomb. 

No  song-bird  singing  from  some  live  soul's  height. 

But  he  might  hear,  interpret,  or  illume 

With  sense  invasive  as  the  dawn  of  doom. 

Page  Ninety-seven 


HOMAGE        TO 


VI. 

What  secret  thing  of  splendor  or  of  shade 

Surmised  in  all  those  wandering  ways  wherein 

Man,  led  of  love  and  life  and  death  and  sin, 

Strays,  climbs,  or  cowers,  allured,  absorbed,  afraid, 

Might  not  the  strong  and  sunlike  sense  invade 

Of  that  full  soul  that  had  for  aim  to  win 

Light,  silent  over  time's  dark  toil  and  din. 

Life,  at  whose  touch  death  fades  as  dead  things  fade? 

O  spirit  of  man,  what  mystery  moves  in  thee 

That  he  might  know  not  of  in  spirit,  and  see 

The  heart  within  the  heart  that  seems  to  strive. 

The  life  within  the  life  that  seems  to  be. 

And  hear,  through  all  thy  storms  that  whirl  and  drive, 

The  living  sound  of  all  men's  souls  alive? 

VII. 

He  held  no  dream  worth  waking:  so  he  said. 

He  who  stands  now  on  death's  triumphal  steep, 

Awakened  out  of  life  wherein  we  sleep 

And  dream  of  what  he  knows  and  sees,  being  dead. 

But  never  death  for  him  was  dark  or  dread: 

"Look  forth"  he  bade  the  soul,  and  fear  not.     Weep, 

All  ye  that  trust  not  in  his  truth,  and  keep 

Vain  memory's  vision  of  a  vanished  head 

As  all  that  lives  of  all  that  once  was  he 

Save  that  which  lightens  from  his  word :  but  we, 

Who,  seeing  the  sunset-colored  waters  roll, 

Yet  know  the  sun  subdued  not  of  the  sea. 

Nor  weep  nor  doubt  that  still  the  spirit  is  whole, 

And  life  and  death  but  shadows  of  the  soul. 

December   \^th. 

DEAD  IN  VENICE 

By  Arthur  Symons 

"Browning  is  dead":  a  nation's  grief: 
But  I  too  have  my  right  to  mourn, 
Being  no  otherwise  forlorn 
Than  soldiers  who  have  lost  their  chief. 

I  see  the  field  he  won:  I  see 

Page  Ninety-eight 


ROBERT     BROWNING 

The  alien  hosts  he  put  to  rout; 
But  him  I  see  no  more:  without 
The  victor  what  is  victory? 

But  he  had  conquered :  that  is  well  ; 
Well  that  the  latest  sound  of  all 
Upon  his  dying  ears  to  fall 
Before  the  final  silence  fell, 

Was  triumph.     'Twas  the  hour  to  end, 

The  hour  a  kindly  Fate  (alas!), 

Who  would  not  let  him  overpass 

Years  that  were  still  the  strong  man's  friend, 

Felicitously  chose,  ere  yet 
The  winter  darkened  round  his  days; 
And  nought  of  pity  mars  our  praise 
Nor  sorrow  dares  be  quite  regret. 

Dead?     But  to  me  that  cannot  be — 
Who  loved  him  when  a  boy,  nor  still 
Can  read  that  name  without  a  thrill 
Which  once  was  all-in-all  to  me; 

Not  dead,  if  dead  means  gone:  death  is 
A  consecration,  and  doth  give 
A  surer  life  to  those  who  live 
Immortal  in  our  memories. 

And  what  is  here  or  there?   Vain  show! 
One  life,  a  sleep  between,  he  said. 
Who  now  knows  all  things  that  the  dead, 
They  who  alone  know  all  things,  know. 

But  now  That  sleeps  with  closed  eyes 
In  Venice  underneath  the  day; 
But  now,  but  now,  I  can  but  lay 
My  wreath  upon  him  where  he  lies. 

From  the  Athaneum,  Dec.  21,  1889,  P-  860;  published 
with  kind  permission  of  the  editors  and  of  the 
authors. 


Page  Ninety-nine 


HOMAGE        TO 


PROSPEXIT 
By  Margaret  J.  Preston 

I  would  hate  that  Death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore, 
And  bade  me  creep  past. 

Browning's  Prospice. 

He  watched  for  it — met  it — and  conquered! 

With  joy  on  his  face, 

He  fronted  the  Fear.     But  the  darkness 

That  shrouded  the  place 

In  mystery,  failed  to  affright  him; 

For  firmly  and  fast 

He  clung  to  his  faith — that  somewhither 

Will  triumph,  at  last, 

God's  ends  in  this  earthly  creation — 

That  Infinite  Love, 

Will  lift  the  true  soul  that  can  trust  Him, 

All  evils  above! 

Why  fear  then?    That  trust  was  his  anchor; 

Himself  hath  so  said, 

His  life  shall  be  only  beginning, 

When  Death  shall  be  dead! 

Why  should  not  the  smile  on  his  features 

Betoken  that  he 

Saw  the  "soul  of  his  soul"  through  a  radiance 

None  other  might  see? 

Clasped  hands  with  her — named  her  in  rapture — 

Reached  forth,  as  if  drawn 

By  fingers  invisible — faltered 

One  word — and  was  gone! 

From  Broivning  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  p.  87*;  in  The 
Critic,  April  5,   1 890;  in  The  Independent. 


Page  One  Hundred 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


IN  THE  POET'S  CORNER 

By  Katharine  Lee  Bates 

Do  they  hold  converse,  keen  as  wine, 
Under  the  pavement,  they 
Who  make,  in  truth,  the  royal  line 
Of  England,  kings  by  right  divine. 
Crowned  with  the  bay? 

Yet  one  is  lonely  in  that  great, 
Rejoicing  fellowship, 
— Lonely  with  Chaucer  for  a  mate. 
And   Spenser,   Dreamland's  laureate, 
He  hears  the  drip 

Of   Florence  dews  upon   a   mound 
That  golden  tides  of  spring 
Mantle  with  bloom,  the  angel-sound 
Of  Nightingales  that  all  around 
Her  silence  sing. 

From  Boston  Broiuning  Society,  1909-1910,  p.  13;  Z""^- 
lished  with  permission  of  the  Society  and  of  the 
author. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  E.  F.  Bridell-Fox 

Stand  still,  true  poet  that  you  are, 
I  know  you;  let  me  try  and  draw  you. 
Some  night  you'll  fail  us.     When  afar 
You  rise,  remember  one  man  saw  you, 
Knew  you,  and  named  a  star. 

The  poet  died  last  month,  and  now 
The  world  which  had  been  somewhat  slow 
In  honouring  his  living  brow, 
Commands  the  palms. 

Taken  from  an  article    by    E.    F.    Bridell-Fox    in    The 
Argosy,  Number  291,   February,    1890. 

Page  One  Hundred  One 


HOMAGE        TO 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Florence  Coaxes 

"Never  say  of  me  that  I  am  dead!" 

Greathearted  son  of  the  Titan  mother,  Earth, 
Fed  at  her  breast. 

He  builded  upward  from  the  solid  ground. 
While  listening  ever  for  the  heavenly  sound 
Of  higher  voices,  to  his  soul  addressed. 

The  elemental  mother,  lending  might 

With  vital  breath, 

Made  him,  with  her  instinctive  courage,  brave; 

And  the  immortals  to  his  spirit  gave 

Their  deeper  knowledge  and  their  scorn  of  death. 

So  evermore  with  energy  and  joy. 

He  followed  Truth: 

Still  for  the  message  and  the  vision  sought, 

Still  to  the  temple  of  her  worship  brought 

The  imagination  of  unaging  youth; 

And  in  its  largeness  ever,  viewing  life, 
Perceived  its  goal 

To  be  beyond  the  bounds  of  space  or  time. 
He  strove  to  picture  it  in  powerful  rhyme; 
But  what  he  painted  ever — was  the  soul! 

Ay,  't  was  the  soul  that  moved,  delighted  him, 

Absorbed  his  care. 

From  early  days  in  English  Camberwell 

To  that  far  hour  when  tolled  for  him  a  knell. 

Mournful  across  the  deep,  from  Venice  the  all-fair. 

Voiceless  he  sleeps,  his  giant  task  performed; 
But  in  his  stead, 

Brave  Caponsacchi,  poignantly  alive, 
Pippa,  beloved  Pompilia,  and  Clive, 
Forbid  the  world  to  think  of  him  as  dead ! 

From  Florence  Coates  Poems,  Vol.  II,  pp.  66-67;  Z*"^- 
lished  with  permission  of  the  author. 


Page  One  Hundred  Two 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


DIVIDED 
By  Ursula  Tannenforst 

She  sleeps  near  cypress-shadows  blackly  strown 

Where  white  and  tall  the  cross-crowned  column  stands; 

All  round  her  rest  the  dead  from  many  lands; 

Proud  tombs  that  tow^r  near  some  simple  stone, 

Nameless,  and  by  a  number  marked  alone; 

Graves,  graves,  and  flowers  sown  by  loving  hands 

Crowded  together,  till  the  law  commands 

No  more  be  buried.     From  their  sunlit  throne 

The  Apennines  look  o'er  her  as  she  lies 

Where  long  ago  their  double  tomb  was  made 

That  both  might  sleep  beneath  Italian  skies. 

Speak,  "grateful  Florence,"  let  his  dust  be  laid 

By  hers!     From  Venice,  where  he  closed  his  eyes, 

Bring  Browning  back,  nor  deem  thy  trust  betrayed. 

V^enice,  in  English  verse  how  oft  have  rung 

The  praises  of  the  city  of  the  sea! 

Each  poet  brought  his  boon  of   love  to  thee; 

Now  noblest  tribute  take  from  laurels  flung 

O'er  Browning's  bier!    By  him  thy  song  was  sung. 

And  in  thine  arms  he  died.     Rejoice,  that  he 

Hath  loved  thee  like  a  son,  O   Italy! 

And  watched  prophetic  while  thy  freedom  sprung 

From  Apennines  to  ocean.     Lo!  complete 

He  hailed  that  vision,  dawning  ere  she  died, 

His  "lyric  love,"  and  graven  on  his  heart 

Was  "Italy."     O  death,  thy  touch  seems  sweet. 

So  softly  rounding,  by  the  sea's  fair  bride. 

That  wondrous  whole  of  life  and  love  and  art! 

Divided!    Earth  to  earth  now  lies  at  last 
In  sculptured  aisle  of  England's  abbey-shrine 
The  noblest  son  of  Europe's  poet-line 
Since  silence  sank  on  Goethe's  trumpet-blast. 
Yet  softly  sighs  a  whisper,  floating  past, — 
"Thine  Italy  adored,  O   love,  grew  mine. 
With  thee  new  life  I  won  when  loves  divine 
Called  soul  and  song  to  freedom  fresh  and  vast. 
Fair  is  the  Florence  of  our  home  the  tread 
Of  pilgrims  pauses  near  my  peaceful  mound. 
And  I  had  thought  my  grave  held  room  for  thee; 

Page  One  Hundred  Three 


HOMAGE       TO 


Yet  England  claims  thee,  where  her  poet-dead 
Rest  round   thy  tomb.     Among  the  laurel-crowned 
For  love's  sweet  sake — not  fame's — find  room  for  me!" 


Not  for  the  love  of  thy  fair  place  of  rest, 

Nor  even  for  thy  verse,  whose  "golden  ring" 

Thine  England  close  to  Italy  doth  bring. 

Should  yonder  grave  upon  the  hillside's  crest 

Hold  thee  'neath  Tuscan  flowers  longer  pressed 

While  he  who  helped  thy  heart's  best  blossoming 

Who  soared  beside  thee  on  his  own  strong  wing, 

Lies  far  away.     A  sepulchre  unblest! 

Long  like  a  dream  of  love  before  the  lands 

Ye  stood  in  poet-union  fitly  bound 

On  some  fair  height,  our  common  earth  above, 

'Twere  shame  did  death  divide  those  wedded  hands! 

Nay;  bind  Italian  unto  English  ground 

In  golden  union  both  of  verse  and  love. 


England  and  Florence  linked  in  golden  rhyme 

Young  Milton,  when  he  "changed  fair  Thames's  stream 

For  lovely  Arno,"  while  the"  early  gleam 

Of  poet-glory  prophesied  his  prime. 

England  and  Florence  met  in  matchless  chime 

When,  love  inspired,  she  sang  of  freedom's  dream, 

And  bade  Aurora's  tale  the  worth  redeem 

Of  woman's  minstrelsy,  with  voice  sublime. 

England,  thy  roll  of  poet-graves  reads  wrong 

If  Florence,  filled  with  all  her  mighty  dead. 

Keeps  England's  daughter  of  a  deathless  song! 

Unclose  that  tomb,  and  lay  her  laurelled  head 

By  his;  more  dear  to  her  the  abbey's  gloom 

By  him  than  Florence  when  her  flowers  bloom! 

From  Poet  Lore,  II,  pp.  193  to   195;  published  with  the 
permission  of  the  editor. 


Page  One  Hundred  Four 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


THE  REZZONICO  PALACE 

{"A  Roberto  Browning,  morto  in  questo  palazzo") 
By  Arthur  Upson 

Low  stars  and  moonlight  beauty  disavow 
That  death  has  ever  known  her;  but  around 
Her  melancholy  portals  only  sound 
Of  waters  makes  her  music;  and  the  brow 
Of  stately  wall  records  the  legend  how 
"Died  in  this  palace"  a  poet  Love  once  crowned. 
Here  the  cold  Angel  that  strong  harp  unbound: 
How  chill  and  silent  seem  her  chambers  now! 
O  World,  if  ever  moon  should  wander  here 
Where  builds  my  heart  its  palace  for  your  song, 
And  find  such  tablet  in  the  outer  wall. 
The  poet  dead,  the  chambers  still  and  drear, 
Let  not  its  hollow  beauty  win  the  throng 
To  reverence,  but  let  it  perish  all ! 

From  "The  City,  a  Poem  Drama,  and  Other  Poems"; 
published  with  permission  of  Mrs.  Arthur  Upson- 

THE  IRIS-BRIDGE 
By  Helen  Gray  Cone 

That  morn  when  men  to  one  another  said 
"Browning  is  dead  in  Venice,"  ere  the  thrill 
Of  the  tidings  touched  us,  lo!  our  eyes  beheld 
Strange  portent  flashed  upon  the  winter  sky. 
From  hill  to  hill  the  jewel-splendid  span 

Of  the  light  rainbow  leaped,  transcendent  joy, 

The  brave,  bright,  delicate  bridge,  frail  as  a  flower. 

Yet  firm  enough  to  bear  the  feet  of  Hope. 

—"Browning  is  dead,"  they  told  us;  but  our  thoughts 

Followed  along  the  aerial  sun-built  arch 

The  onward  quest  of  that  still  ardent  soul. 

Could  he  be  holden  of  death,  who  built  indeed, 

Flinging  his  lyric  faith  across  the  vast, 

An  iris-bridge  for  man  while  words  endure? 

From  Boston  Browning  Society,   1909-1910,  p.   I?;  /•"*" 
lished  with  permission  of  the  Society. 

Page   One  Hundred  Five 


HOMAGE        TO 


SALVE 

By  Charlotte  Pendleton 

Browning  Is  Dead!    Was  is  yesterday 

Or  a  thousand  misty  years  ago, 

While  ghoulish  shadows,  to  and  fro. 

Flit  o'er  the  lamp  where  the  flame  was  housed, 

And  blink  in  the  light  of  the  rising  day? 

What  matter,  I  say,  friends,  though  my  clay 

Still  lie  in  Italy  all  unhoused, 

When  the  soul  that  informed  it  is  away; 

Broiuning  Is  Dead! 

Though  already  the  shadows  gather  between 
And  mystery  shroud  my  mortal  way, 
For  that  other  star  with  mine,  serene, 
Commingles  once  more  in  a  deathless  ray, 
And  our  married  souls,  within  the  screen 
Were  kissing,  as  earth  sighed  yesterday, 

Broivning  Is  Dead! 

From  Poet  Lore,  Vol.  \,  p.  545;  published  with  the  per- 
mission  of  the  editor. 

LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  AND 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT 

By  Rev.  William  Brunton 

Oh,  dear  departed  saints  of  highest  song! 
Behind  the  screen  of  time  your  love  lay  hid. 
Its  full  unfoldment  was  in  life  forbid — 
As  doing  such  divine  affection  wrong. 
But  now  we  read,  with  interest  deep  and  strong, 
And  lift  from  off  the  magic  jar  the  lid. 
And  Lo!  your  spirit  stands  the  clouds  amid. 

And  speaks  to  us  in  some  superior  tongue! 
Devotion  such  as  yours  is  heavenly-wise, 

And  yet  the  possible  of  earth  ye  show; 
Ye  dwellers  of  the  blue  of  summer  skies. 

Through  you  a  finer  love  of  love  we  know; 
It  is  as  if  the  angels  moved  with  men. 
And  key  of  paradise  is  found  again! 

Page  One  Hundred  Six 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  AND 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT 

Anonymous 

Forgive,  sweet  Lovers  of  this  book, 

The  sad,  who  scan  your  story; 
Forgive  their  wistful  eyes  that  look  .... 
Forgive,  sweet  Lovers  of  this  book. 
Their  knowledge  where  your  fingers  shook, 

Their  watching  of  your  glory! 
Forgive,  sweet  Lovers  of  this  book, 

The  sad,  who  scan  your  story. 

Accept,  true  Lovers,  here  enshrined, 

The  few  who  share  your  gladness 
In  touch  of  heart  and  soul  and  mind; 
Accept  true  Lovers,  here  enshrined. 
Their  seeing  of  themselves  defined, 

Their  growth  to  joy,  from  sadness  .... 
Accept,  true  Lovers  here  enshrined. 

The  few  who  share  your  gladness. 

Condone,  great  Lovers — being  dead. 

The  printing  of  these  pages; 
Nor  shrink  that  we — we,  too,  have  read; 
Condone,  great  Lovers — being  dead. 
Our  vision  of  the  Gold  you  shed 

For  hearts  in  coming  ages  .... 
Condone,  great  Lovers,  being  dead, 

The  printing  of  these  pages. 

BROWNING 

By  Louise  Chandler  Moulton 

That  longed-for  door  stood  open,  and  he  passed 

On  through  the  star-sown  fields  of  light,  and  stayed 

Before  its  threshold,  glad  and  unafraid. 

Since  all  that  Life  and  Death  could  do  at  last 

Was  over,  and  the  hour  so  long  forecast 

Had  brought  his  footsteps  thither.      Undismayed 

He  entered.     Were  his  lips  on  her  lips  laid? 

God  knows.     They  met,  and  their  new  day  was  vast. 

Page   One  Hundred  Seven 


HOMAGE        TO 


THE  POET'S   HOME-GOING 
By  H.  D.  Rawnsley 

"I  shall  soon  depart  for  Venice  on  my  way  homeward." 
Extract  from  a  letter  of  Browning's  written  to  a  friend 
a  few  weeks  before  his  death. 

His  heart  was  where  the  summer  ever  shines, 

He  saw  the  English  swallow  eastward  come, 

And  still  among  the  olives  and  the  vines. 

Or  underneath  the  dark  sun-scented  pines 

Of  Asola,  he  hummed  his  latest  lines, 

And  bade  his  white-winged  songs  go  flying  home. 

Then  when  the  red  sails  round  by  Lido  came 

To  rest,  and  idle  now  the  gondolier 

Beneath  the  Lion  and  those  masts  aflame. 

Guessed  fingers  in  the  old  Venetian  game, 

A  dark  boat  neared.     Death  called  the  poet's  name, 

Then  straight  toward  the  sunset  seemed  to  steer. 

Another  prow  pushed  quay- wards,  wrought  of  gold, 
Pure  gold,  and  with  the  lily  in  her  hand 
The  Maid,  whose  virgin  arms  did  once  enfold 
The  world's  Salvation,  leaned  to  bless  the  hold. 
And  smile  on  him  whose  music  had  extolled 
The  Lion  and  the  Lily  of  the  land. 


Then  up  into  the  lordly  Palace  Hall 

Bright  angels  passed  to  lead  him  to  the  shore. 

And  o'er  his  body  did  they  lay  for  pall 

Italia's  love  and  England's  loss,  and  all 

Cried,  "He  whose  spirit  the  Heaven  from  Earth  doth  call. 

Freed  men,  and  lo,  is  freed  for  evermore." 


"Yea  freed  the  most  to  find  his  being  whole, 
'The  broken  arc,  in  Heaven  a  perfect  round'; 
Free  with  the  freedom  of  that  kindred  soul 
Whose  love  and  life  through  all  the  under-roll 


Page  One  Hundred  Eight 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


Of  sorrowful  dark,  has  kept  him  to  the  goal, 
And  free  to  utter  his  full  self  in  sound." 

Then  with  those  angels  silently  he  went, 
Pushed  from  the  steps,  left  Venice  flaming  bright 
Above  her  sunset  waters;  backward  bent 
Towers  shook,  so  swift  astern  the  waves  were  sent 
Domes  danced,  and  still  the  harp's  accompaniment 
Came  with  his  voice  to  call  us  toward  the  light. 

And  other  voices  called,  for  other  prows 
Pushed  after,  gorgeous,  sweet  for  myrtle  flowers, 
With  long-robed  men  therein,  upon  whose  brows 
Were  caps  of  honour  such  as  he  who  knows 
Bellini's  Doge  can  tell  of,  men  of  vows 
By  their  tight  lips,  the  men  who  built  the  towers. 

Alas!  they  cried,  "To  what  far  island  steers 

The  boat  that  bears  our  poet-soul  away? 

We  built  the  city,  but  his  glory  rears 

Anew  the  walls,  eternal  as  the  years; 

We  took  the  sea  to  marriage,  but  he  wears 

The  ring  that  weds  our  Venice.     Let  him  stay!" 


Then  the  stars  paled,  yet  paled  not  that  bright  star, 
But  grew:    the  grey  sea  heaved  from  dusk  to  gold. 
And  sailing  we  were  ware  of  hills  afar — 
The  amethystine  hills  where  angels  are — 
That  rose  from  burnished  calm  no  tempests  mar 
To  skies  of  peace  that  never  can  grow  old. 


We  neared   the  land,   and   multitudes   foreknew 
His  coming,  waved  a  forestry  of  palm. 
The  singer's  face  most  like  an  angel  grew, 
Far  off  we  saw  what  fires  rekindled  flew 
Forth  from  his  eyes,  as  near  the  vessel  drew. 
And  o'er  the  waves  to  meet  us  came  a  psalm. 

"O  girder  of  Truth's  sword  upon  men's  thigh, 
And  looser  of  men's  fear  for  mortal  harm, 
If  but  they  leave  their  castles  to  the  sky. 

Page  One  Hundred  Nine 


HOMAGE        TO 


And  go  forth  dauntless  when  the  foe  draws  nigh, 
Thine  was  the  clarion  call  to  victory 
Against  the  world's  inevitable  swarm!" 

Then  to  the  singer  did  they  bring  a  crown, 
And  thoughts  that  long  had  struggled  unto  birth 
Took  form  melodious,  wonderful,   full-grown, 
And  many  souls  come  near  to  him  half  known, 
Souls  strong  through  loss  and  loving  like  his  own, 
Friends  of  his  mind  and  making  upon  earth. 

On  either  side  to  let  him  forward  move 

The  gracious  congregation  did   divide; 

But  those  clear  eyes  that  flashed  for  joy  to  prove 

The  bliss  of  recognition  seemed  to  rove. 

As  looking  for  fulfilment  of  all  love, 

As  yearning  still,  and  still  unsatisfied. 


E'en  as  he  gazed,  with  amaranth  on  her  brow. 

And  all  the  long  upgathered  love  of  years, 

Came  one  whose  eyes  from  distance  seemed  to  know 

Her  bliss  his  perfect  glory;  with  such  glow 

Souls  met  and  mingled,  the  sad  Earth  below 

Felt  the  far  joy  in  Heaven,  and  ceased  from  tears. 

From  the  Browning  Centenary,  pp.   14  to   18;  published 
with  permission  of  the  author. 

BROWNING 

By  a.  Bennett 

In  the  "quiet-coloured  ending"  of  the  golden  afternoon, 
Robed    and   crowned   with    flowers   and    moving   to    the 

ripple's  lulling  tune 
Did  they  bear  the  body  of  the  Master  o'er  the  grey  lagoon. 

At  the  prow  there  beamed  an  angel.    Was  it  such  Guer- 

cino  drew? 
From   the  stern   a  lion's  kingly  front  victorious  rose  to 

view. 
He  with  voice  of  angel,  heart  of  lion,  lay  between  the  two. 

Page  One  Hundred  Ten 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


Followed  him  in  tearful  silence  down  the  dim  unpaven 
way 

"Certain  people  of  importance,"  "men  and  women"  such 
as  they 

Live  and  love  and  laugh  and  weep  undying  in  his  death- 
less lay. 

Singer  of  her  "dear  dead  women,"  he  who  drew  her  pale 

decline, 
Took  the  golden  hair,  embalmed  it  in  his  rich  majestic 

line, 
Venice  bore  him  on  her  bosom  poured  his  latest  anodyne. 

Not  as  to  the  sombre  English  Abbey,  there  to  join   his 

peers. 
Let  us  dream  of  him,  in  pageant  borne  amid  a  nation's 

tears — 
Rather  in  the  still  Venetian  twilight,  led  of  gondoliers 

Down  the  lanes  of  light  and  twinkling  amber  that  the 

sunset  flings 
O'er  the  city  "where  the  Doges  used  to  wed  the  sea  with 

rings, 
Where  St.  Mark's  is," — where  died  one  of  Poesy's  su- 

premest  kings. 

From  Browning  Society  Papers,  Part   I2,  p.  67.* 

Fulfilled,  December   12,   1889 
Oh,  the  blessed  fruition 
Of  peace  out  of  pain! 
Of  a  light  without  darkness, 
A  clasping  again! 
Of  a  full  soul's  reunion 
In  Love's  endless  reign! 

Sing,  O  Earth,  with  new  joy 
At  this  victory  won! 
For  the  faith  that  endured 
'Till  the  setting  of  sun! 
For  the  hope  that  shone  clear 
Through  the  mighty  work  done! 
For  the  love  that  sought  God 
To  guide  love  here  begun! 
Sing,  O  Earth,  with  new  joy 
For  such  victory  won! 
From    The  Brownings  and  America,   p.    103 ;   published 
ti'ith  permission. 

Page   One   Hundred  Elevtn 


HOMAGE        TO 


BROWNING 
By  Henrietta  Huxley 

This  day  within  the  Abbey,  where  of  old 
Our  kings  were  sepulchred,  a  King  of  song 
That,  like  his  life,  was  truthful,  pure  and  strong, — 
Browning  among  his  peers  is  laid  to  rest. 
Borne  to  the  grave  by  loving  hearts,  and  stoled 
In  shining  raiment  that  his  genius  wove. 
No  lingering  sickness  his:  with  swift  surprise 
Death  flashed  the  Light  Eternal  in  his  eyes, 
And  blinded  Life.     So  this  way  he  was  blest. 
Perhaps  in  some  far  star  he  now  has  met 
His  rose  of  love,  his  ne'er  forgotten  wife. 
And  they  again,  as  once,  in  spirit  blent. 
Look  through  the  veil  this  day,  and  hear  the  fret 
Of  many  feet;  the  swelling  music  spent 
On  mourning  listeners.     With  voices  low. 
Chanting  her  hymn,  the  boys  sing  as  they  go 
"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep,"    What  though 
The  perishable  forms  these  two  once  wore. 
In  different  lands  lie  sundered  by  the  sea? 
Their  spirits  smile,  at  this  our  fond  regret. 
"What  matters  anything  since  we  have  met?" 
They  radiant  sing.     "Together,  oh   what  more 
Can  love  long  parted  from  the  Eternal  crave?" 
And  if  there  be  no  meeting  past  the  grave, 
If  all  is  darkness,  silence,  still  'tis  rest. 
Be  not  afraid,  ye  waiting  hearts  that  weep, 
For  "God  still  giveth  his  beloved  sleep," 
And  if  an  endless  sleep  He  wills,  so  best! 

Fro?)i  Broiuning  Society  Papers,  Part   12,  p.  67.* 

IN  MEMORIAM— ROBERT  BROWNING 
By  The  Rev.  John  Owen 

I. 

Grim  Harvester,  Death,  thou  hast  gathered  in  the  curve 
of  thy  sickle  keen 

A  ripe  shock  of  mellowest  corn — fair  fruitage  for  centu- 
ries to  glean; 

But  though  golden  and  ripe  for  the  reaper,  we  grudge 
such  a  harvest  of  worth, 

Page  One  Hundred  Twelve 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


In    its   fullness  of   aureate  splendour,   should    be   lost    to 
man's   vision   on   earth. 

2. 

In  fruition  of  years  and  of  glory  hath  passed  to  his  rest 

the  Seer, 
Whose   inwardly-piercing  vision   through   man's   universe 

ranged  clear, 
Whose    oracles    pregnant    and    strong — as    a     Hebrew 

prophet's  of  old — 
New  glimpses  of  truth  aye  revealed  to  eyes  gifted  with 

sense   to  behold. 

3. 

We  mourn  for  the  thinker  whose  thought  disdained  the 

mean   level  of  men. 
Sounding    down    to    hid    depths   of    their    being,    soaring 

upward  beyond  their  ken. 
Threading  with  insight  unerring — a  Seer-spirit's  intuitive 

force — 
Each  subtle  and  devious  bye-path  of  man's  life's  labyryn- 

thine  course. 

4- 

With  lute  still  attuned  and  voiceful,  the  hand  from  its 

strings  that  awoke 
With  masterly  skill  new  beauties  by  each  music-sensitive 

stroke, 
Lies  numb'd  in  death,  and  the  tongue  whose  tones  were 

so  pure  and  strong 
Is  hushed,  and  will  never  more  rapture  our  souls  with  its 

magical  song. 

5. 

A  blank    dreary    stillness    thus    reigns    where    resonant 

music — voiced 
To  man's  deepest  thought  and  his  sorrow,  bringing  solace 

or  strength  that  rejoiced — 
Lately  gladdened  our  ears — and  we,  with   the  gathering 

silence  grown  dumb 
In   voiceless   sympathy   wail    our   song-bereaved    years   to 

come. 

6. 

Sons  of  the  dead  Prophet,  we  mourn  the  orphaning  doom 
we  have  met, 

Page   One   Hundred    Thirteen 


HOMAGE        TO 


We  grieve  that  one  Seer  less   remains   to  chide  human 

folly  and  fret, 
That  a  Star  of  rare  brilliance  and  guidance  is  gone  from 

our  human  sky, 
And  the  dark  of  man's  world  has  grown  denser  for  every 

discerning  eye. 

7. 

Yet  may  we  still  warm  in  the  sun, — though  its  orb  we, 

with  boding  unrest. 
Have  watched  in  sunset  glory  sink  in  the  gold  clouds  of 

the  West, — 
Thoughts  that  the  world  may  have  chill'd  in  the  depths 

of  its  frozen  night — 
True  feelings  that  Self  may  have  blunted,  as  a  flower  is 

stunted  with  blight. 

8. 

"Stored  Sunshine"  we  hold  in  his  writings,  packed  daintily 

for  our  joy. 
As  men  store  the  soul  of  the  Lightning,  and  its  force  and 

its  radiance  employ; 
The  sunlight  condensed  in  his  pages,   that  should   make 

men    enlightened    and    free, 
Will,  long  as  our  language  is  spoken,   give  strength   to 

our  children  to  be. 


9- 


True,  we  who  rejoiced  in  his  presence,  in  the  light  of  his 

winsome  smile. 
We,   of   our  sorrows   and    doubts   whose   word-witchery 

served   to  beguile. 
We,  in  the  night  of  bereavement,  must  endure  its  lack 

and  its  pain ; 
The   sweet   sentience    of    Love,    death-smitten,    on    earth 

revives  never  again. 

From  Broiuning  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  p.  30. 


Page  One  Hundred  Fourteen 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


IDOL  AFFECTIONS 
Inscribed  to  Robert  Broivning 

By  Clara  Bloomfield  Moore 

Our  idols  are  our  executioners. — Amiel. 
God's  care  be  God's. — Broivning. 

There  is  no  day  of  all  my  years  whereon 

I  could  not  darken  every  sunniest  hour 

With  memories  of  my  life  that  was,  before 

God  drew  our  distant  paths  near  and  more  near. 

I  know  the  Hand  which  broke  before  my  face 

The  idols  I  had  wrought  from  clay  and  clothed 

In  golden  raiment,  then  within  my  heart 

Installed,  as  on  an  altar-shrine,  to  fall 

And  crush  me  where  I  knelt, — more  merciless 

Than  mediaeval  priests  who  racked  the  saints. 

Yet  spared  their  tortured   frames  when   strength   waxed 

low. 
Ah,  then  I  thought  my  heart  a  sepulchre, 
Where  only  weeds  and  noisome  things  would  dwell, 
In  which  no  ray  could  ever  shine  again! 
Unto  this  place  of  graves  thou  didst  not  scorn 
To  come,  dear  friend,  bringing  a  jewelled  lamp 
To  hang  above  the  empty  shrine,  and  flash 
Its  beams  where  now  for  weeds  lie  flowers  which 

gained 
Their  birth  and  growth  in  gardens  of  the  soul. 
Like  incense  doth  their  perfume  rise,  by  day 
And  night,  to  heaven,  as  rise  my  prayers  to  God 
In  thanks  for  such  a  matchless  gift  as  thine, — 
Renewed  like  amaranth  blooms  as  seasons  roll. 
What  can  I  do  but  trust  the  Hand  which  worked 
Such  marvels  for  me  when  I  prayed  for  death? 
"God's  care  be  God's":  I  wait  upon  His  will 
To  lift  all  shadows  from  my  life  that  shines. 
"God's  care  be  God's":  I'll  leave  to  Him  His  task. 
And,  trusting  in  His  love,  forget  to  ask. 

From  Browning  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  p.   I09-* 

Page  One  Hundred  Fifteen 


HOMAGE        TO 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  C.  p.  Cranch 

Themes  strong,  verse  blood-warm  with  the  limbs  and  veins 

Of  life  at  full  flush ;  yet  as  when  one  sees 

Some  unknown  Grecian  youth  Praxiteles 

Or  Phidias  raised  from  flesh  on  Attic  plains 

Into  perennial  marble,  the  coarse  stains 

Of  corporal  frailty  cleansed  by  ministries 

Of  art  divine  from  all  impurities, 

Till  of  crude  fact  the  living  soul  remain, — 

So  with  the  touch  of  genius  wrought  this  seer 

Of  passion  and  of  truth,  till  heart  and  mind 

Share  in  the  vigor  of  the  fleshly  frame. 

Though  palpable  to  sense  his  forms  appear, 

In  the  soul's  life  transfigured  and  refined 

The  higher  art  that  nature  makes,  they  claim. 

FrOiti  "Browning  Memorial,"  published  zvith  the  permis- 
sion of  the  Boston  Browning  Society. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 
By  Aubrey  de  Verb 

I. 

Gone  from  us!  that  strong  singer  of  late  da3^s — 
Sweet  singer  should  be  strong — who,  tarrying  here. 
Chose  still  rough  music  for  his  themes  austere. 
Hard-headed,  a3'e  but  tender-hearted  la)^s. 
Carefully  careless,  garden  half,  half  maze. 
His  thoughts  he  sang,  deep  thoughts  to  thinkers  dear. 
Now  flashing  under  gleam  of  smile  or  tear, 
Now  veiled  in  language  like  a  breezy  haze 
Chance-pierced  by  sunbeams  from  the  lake  it  covers. 
He  sang  man's  ways — not  heights  of  sage  or  saint, 
Not  highways  broad,  not  haunts  endeared  to  lovers; 
He  sang  life's  byways,  sang  its  angles  quaint. 
Its  Runic  lore  inscribed  on  stave  or  stone; 
Song's  short-hand  strain, — its  key  oft  his  alone. 

II. 

Shakespeare's  old   oak   "gnarled   and   unwedgeable" 
Yields  not  so  sweet  a  wood  to  harp  or  lyre 

Page  One  Hundred  Sixteen 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


As  tree  of  smoother  grain ;  and  chorded  shell 
Is  spanned  by  strings  tenderer  than  iron  wire. 
AVhat  then?    Stern  tasks  iron  and  oak  require! 
Iron  deep-mined,  hard  oak  from  stormy  fell: 
Steel-armed  the  black  ship  breasts  the  ocean's  swell, 
Oak-ribbed  laughs  back  the  raging  tempest's  ire. 
Old  friend,  thy  song  I  deem  a  ship  whose  hold 
Is  stored  with  mental  spoils  of  ampler  price 
Than  Spain's  huge  galleons  in  her  age  of  gold, 
Or  Indian  carracks  from  the  isles  of  spice. 
Brave  Argosy!  cleave  long  the  waves  as  now; 
And  all  the  sea-gods  sing  around  thy  prow! 

From  Macmillan's  Magazine,    the    Neuf    York    Times, 
Sunday,  Feb.  i6,  1890. 


AT  BROWNING'S  GRAVE 
By  H.  D.  Rawnsley 

7  th  May,  19 1 2 

Come  forth  ye  great  immortals  from  your  sleep. 
And  swell  today  our  glad  memorial  throng. 
Ye  sowed  the  golden  seed  of  thought,  we  reap 
Your  deathless  fruit  of  song. 

Come  not  as  victors  with  a  flash  of  swords, 
Nor  clad   in  war's  impenetrable  mail, 
But  crowned  with  laurels,  armed  with  fiery  words, 
Whose  music  shall  not  fail. 

Leave  your  fair  halls  of  melody  and  psalm. 

To  join  in  honour  to  our  spirit-guest 

— The  man  who  taught  us  Right  must  bear  the 

palm, 
And  Love  in  Heaven  find  rest. 

Therefore  to-day,  in  this  most  holy  place. 
Where  still  the  harps  that  helped  the  ages  ring. 
We  thank  the  Eternal  Father  for  his  grace. 
Who  bade  the  prophet  sing. 

From   the  Broivntng    Centenary,  p.    12;  published    with 
permission  of  the  author. 

Page  One  Hundred  Seventeen 


HOMAGE        TO 


BROWNING 

Anonymous 

No,  not  once  more  amid  the  funeral  train, 
With  softened  grief,  do  I  desire  to  see, 
A  friend  enshrined  in  that  great  canopy. 
Of  England's  glory,  or  to  hear  the  strain 
Of  honour  surge  around  his  senseless  brain. 
Too  often  have  I  joined  the  minstrelsy, 
Which  there  emblazons  on  our  history 
An  everlasting  name:  no,  not  again. 

But  as  I  note  the  hour,  and  mourn  apart, 

Twill  be  to  think  there  is  another  grave, 

And  greater  tomb  than  that  where  they  would  save 

And  seal  the  laurels  of  a  poet's  art. 

More  deeply  buried  than  in  aisle  or  nave: 

His  resting  place  is  in  a  nation's  heart. 

From  Broivning  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  p.  51*;  also  in 
St.  James  Gazette. 


AT  BROWNING'S   GRAVE 

By  Alfred  Forman 

Ashes  to  ashes!    Dust  again  to  dust! 
Once  more  the  solemn  words  upon  the  ear 
Are  launched  in  love  and  worship.    Let  no  tear 
Betoken  in  us  any  lack  of  trust 

That  here  a  mighty  life  has  found  its  just 
And  unbewailable  and  perfect  end. 
Here  at  thy  grave,  as  Poet,  Man,  and  Friend. 
We  hail  thee  blest,  as  all  who  know  thee  must. 

Through  piled  and  woven  flowers  our  living  heart 
Yearns  downward  to  thy  dead  one.    Love  and  Pride 
Contend  in  us  which  owns  the  greater  part. 
Farewell?   We  leave  thee  where  thou  dost  abide, 
In  twofold  aspect  of  thy  life  and  art. 
The  greatest  Englishman  since  Milton  died. 

From  Browning  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  p.  51*;  also  in 
Court  Circular. 

Page  One  Hundred  Eighteen 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


AT  29  DE  VERE  GARDENS 
By  F.  T.  Palgrave 

2Sth  December,  1889 

Twilight  and  peace  in  the  chamber; 
Twilight  of   death   and   peace 
For  him  who  the  strife,  the  long  battle  of  life, 
Had  fought  out  to  the  last  release: 

Dead  in  a  dying  City, 
Through  her  silent  water-ways  sped 
Toward  the  misty  West,  and  the  place  of  rest 
And  gray  home  of  the  mighty  dead. 

Now  bathed  in  silence  and  twilight 
Where  with  wisdom's  roseate  glow, 
Quick  lightnings  of  wit,  the  chamber  was  lit 
So  lately, — yet  so  long  ago: 

Where  eyes  that  from  youth  ne'er  looked  on  me 
But  the  heart's  bright  message  they  bore, — 
The  welcoming  lip,  the  hand's  honest  grip, 
Were  mine — mine  now  never  more: — 

There  with  amaranth  cross,  and  bay-wreath, 
Inane  munus,  I  strove, 

Knelt  there  and  pray'd  where  they  said  he  was  laid, 
To  do  the  last  office  of  love; 

Love  reverent,  grateful,  deep, 

For  the  treasure  that  only  they, 

The  poets  of  Love,  the  wise  from  Above, 

To  the  world  in  its  deadness  convey: 

For  he,  Star-crested,  Hope-armour'd, 
Struck  straight  at  a  swelling  tide; 
In  the  valley  of  doubt,  with  clarion  shout. 
Chased  coward  and  doubter  aside. 

Then  the  vanish'd  Presence  in  brightness 

Was  felt  once  more  in  the  room. 

While  the  worn-out  shred  the  great  spirit  had  shed 

Lay  garnlsh'd  and  still  for  the  tomb. 

Page  One  Hundred  Nineteen 


HOMAGE        TO 


Not  there  was  the  soul  I  had  loved, 
Where  the  mortal   raiment  was  laid, — 
Death's  fast  vanishing  spoil,  the  lamp  without  oil 
The  blank  sheath  of  the  God-wrought  blade, — 
Bare  walls  of  man's  house,  where  no  fire 
On  the  central  hearth-stone  glows! — 
Till  silently  round  me  a  vapour  of  sound, 
The  music  of  memory,  rose: — 

And  Blest  are  the  dead  in  the  Lord; 
For  they  rest  from  their  labours,  I  heard; 
With  a  Love  is  best! — and  the  life  now  at  rest 
Was  summ'd  in  that  one  brief  word. 

From  Broii-ning  Society  Papers,  Part   12,   p.  49.* 


BROWNING 

By  E,  R.  Chapman 

Undaunted  spirit,  who  didst  help  us  best — 
Best  help  the  world — by  being  glad  and  strong. 
Still  proving  gloriously  that  strength  and  song 
Are  not  disjoined — not  yet — take  thou  thy  rest! 

Rest  well!     Thy  countrj^  clasps  thee  to  her  breast, 
See,  in  her  Abbey;  thy  disciples  throng 
To  greet  thee  these  historic  aisles  among, 
Too  true  to  thee  to  mourn — to  weep  too  blest. 

And  thou,  brave  heart,  grieve  thou  not  overmuch 
If  in  that  distant  Flower-city  fair 
Thy  lyric  love  lies  evermore  alone. 

Your  souls  are  one;  your  disrobed  spirits  touch. 
Re-wedded,  glad — and  England,  for  her  share, 
Crowned  you  long  since  upon  a  common  throne. 

From  Broivning  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  p.  50.* 


Page  One  Hundred  Twenty 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


TO  BROWNING 
By  Walter  S.  Bigei.ow 

Stones  of  Venice!  a  heart  has  turned  cold  that  had  often 

beat  high, 
Living  over  the  lives  of  the  men  you  have  seen  in  their 

prime  ; 
Whom   it   knew   by   the   record   brou<]:ht   down    from   an 

earlier  time; 
Whom  it  loved  with  such  love,  that  its  ardour  forbade 

them  to  die. 

From  a  lyre  held  so  close  that  the  heart's  every  passionate 

beat 
Drew  a  sigh  or  a  song  from  its  sensitive,  sonorous  strings. 
Rose  to  heaven — like  a  bird  with  a  message  between  her 

white  wings — 
Blended  strains  of  the  present    and    past,     in    a    music 

complete. 

Faithful  heart!  that  turned  cold  only  now,  at  the  touch 

of  that  foe 
Whom  it  feared  not:  whose  coming  it  hailed,  with  a  joy 

undissembled : 
Friend,  not  foe,  who  should   bring  it  once  more  to  her 

breast;  and  it  trembled. 
Not  with  dread,  but  a  yearning  desire  for  the  summons 

to  go. 

From  Broictiing  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  p.   126.* 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Michael  Field 

Slowly  we  disarray, 

Our  leaves  grow  few, 

Few  on  the  bough,  and  many  on  the  sod: 

Round  him  no  ruining  autumn  tempest  blew, 

Gathered  on  genial  day, 

He  fills,  fresh  as  Apollo's  bay. 

The  Hand  of  God. 

Frorti  Browning  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  No.  10,  p.  28,* 
also  dcademy  Dec,  21,  1889. 

Page    One   Hundred    Tiventy-one 


HOMAGE        TO 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

An  Acrostic  Sonnet.    In  Memoriam 

By  Thomas  Hutchinson 

Robed  in  the  beauty  of  a  blameless  life, 
Our  poet  sleeps,  whose  name  Time  will  revere; 
Blest  in  the  love  of  those  he  held  most  dear 
Ere  he  was  called  to  join  his  poet-wife. 
Remembering  aye  God's  will  of  good  is  rife, 
The  thought  of  death  to  him  gave  doubt  nor  fear, 
But  hope  unending;  wherefore  sob  or  tear? — 
Removed  is  he  from  earthly  care  and  strife. 
Of  human  hearts  the  workings  well  he  knew. 
Was  conversant  with  their  most  secret  throes, 
Nor  cared  to  sing  his  songs  in  minor  keys; 
In  human  hearts  his  message  echoes  true: — 
Not  pain,  not  sorrow  comes  at  lifetime's  close; 
Great  though  the  change,  greater  the  after-peace. 

From  Broiuning  Society  Papers,  Part   I2,  p.  29.* 

A  SONNET  ON  BROWNING 

Anonymous 

Calm,  O  thou  mighty  heart,  and  cold,  thou  hand. 
Calm  calm  and  cold  in  the  beloved  clime 
Amid  whose  magic  rose  the  deathless  rhj^me, 
Ringing  like  tocsin  through  our  sleeping  land. 
O  dear  dead  voice,  thy  half-divine  command 
Called  forth  creations  durabler  than  time. 
Life's  epic  pictures,  earth's  lyric  mime, 
God-singer  whom  but  few  may  understand. 

Oft  caught  thy  firm  keen  eyes  the  fields  of  morn, 
From  the  high  silence  of  the  Pisgah-peak 
Whence  flashed  their  glory  on  marchers  far  below; 
Now  that  for  thee  love's  lighf  of  light  is  born, 
O  dear  dead  voice,  if  we  could  hear  thee  speak. 
How  thou  wouldst  tell  what  all  are  fain  to  know. 

From  Browning  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  p.  75.* 

Page  One  Hundred  Twenty-two 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


ON  HEARING  OF  THE  DEATH  OF 
ROBERT  BROWNING 

By   H.   J.    BULKELEY 

Dead !    But  it  is  not  possible.     That  mind, 
That  energy,  that  hope  can  never  die. 
Time  to  our  music  deaf,  our  beauty  blind, 
May  kill  all,  all  but  thy  vitality. 

Can  never  die!     Not  while  this  England  lasts. 
Nor  while  our  English  tongue  its  force  and  fame 
O'er  all  the  world  in  widening  circle  casts, 
Shall  pale  the  lustre  of  thy  peerless  name. 

O  fighter  brave,  as  in  thy  Prospice 
Thou  that  last  fight  has  fought,  and  to  thy  breast 
Thy  soul's  soul  thou  hast  clasped  again.     Ah!  she 
And  thou — with  God  'tis  safe  to  leave  the  rest. 

But  we  would  crown  thee  here  as  well  as  there, 
Crown  thee  and  her  together,  king  and  queen. 
Through  all  its  ^eons  such  a  regal  pair, 
Beauteous  and  strong,  the  world  has  never  seen. 

And  shall  it  ever  see? — Her  tenderness. 
Her  lofty  passion,  rush  of  winged  words 
Pregnant  with  love  and  life — And  less  and  less 
We  need  be  taught  the  temper  of  thy  sword's 

Flashing  and  piercing;  thou  who  man  as  men 
To  us  presented  in  such  varied  throngs 
Through  all   its  common-places  new  and  then 
The  world  w^ould  wonder,  as  their  proper  songs 

Sang  all  and  each,  but  never  one  the  same 
Diverse  in  mood  and  character  and  time, 
Diverse  as  pain  from  joy,  as  snow  from  flame; 
But  through  them  all  still  rang  a  subtle  rhyme. 

Subtle  and  strong  and  true,  of  mind  and  soul 
And  art  and  love  and  God.     Here  Cleon  stands 
Musing  of  art  that  would  ensphere  the  whole; 
And  here  Pompilia  wrings  those  hopeless  hands. 

Page  One  Hundred  Tiventy-three 


HOMAGE        TO 


Here  an  Apostle  dying  leaves  to  doubt 
A  noble  mission.     Here  a  Caliban 
Reasons  of  God.     Here  with  a  stupid  shout 
Of  thanks  to  Christ  men  burn  their  fellow  man. 

Here  Martin  Relph  would  half  conceal  his  sin, 
Blurting  it  out.     Here  noble  Luria  dies 
For  trustless  Florence;  horse  and  rider  win 
Good  news  for  Ghent;  the  gipsy  duchess  flies 

Back  to  her  liberty;  unconscious  paints 
His  life  that  famous  master,  or  unknown 
He  fills  the  empty  aisles  with  babes  and  Saints, 
Who  used  his  art  for  Art  and  God  alone. 

Here  Paracelsus  knows  and  sins,  but  loves 
And  dies.     Here  David's  music  draws  the  stars. 
Sordello  here  his  art  to  action  moves. 
And  failing  triumphs ;  Clive  his  crowns  and  scars 

Tops  with  one  boyish  deed;  high  Strafford  falls; 
The  trodden  Jew  from  scorn  and  hatred  frees 
His  soaring  faith;  sweet  Pippa,  passing,  calls 
To  souls;  Balaustion  chants  Euripides. 

Abt  Vogler  here  may  raise  his  walls  of  sound ; 
The  Arab  lose  his  horse  for  love ;  the  sage, 
Ferishtah,  hint  the  truth;  lo!  one  fierce  bound, 
False  Gauthier  grovels.     So  from  page  to  page 

Weaves  the  magician  robes  and  thoughts  for  all, 
And  yet  doth  clothe  himself  in  every  mood ; 
As  some  great  actor  in  a  carnival 
Puts  on  a  warrior's  helm,  a  friar's  hood, 

An  angel's  wreath,  a  demon's  horns  and  head, 
Is  everv'one  in  turn,  and  yet  the  eyes 
Of  her  whose  vision  by  her  love  is  led 
Sees  him,  her  loved  one,  in  each  new  disguise; 

So  did  we  love  to  see  thee,  many,  one ; 
Soi  didst  thou  teach  that  wide  philosophy 
In  shapes  as  various  as  the  hues  that  run 
Through  the  great  bow  that  blendeth  earth  and  sky 

Page  One  Hundred  Twenty-four 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


In  coloured  harmony.     So  many  voices, 

And  yet  one  mind  that  all  informed  and  blest! 

O  poet,  master,  each  of  us  rejoices, 

Must  still  rejoice  in  all  that  good  and  best 

Thou  hast  so  generously  poured  out  to  teach  us, 
Our  minds  and  souls;  we  learn  and  still  are  glad. 
From  that  new  life  canst  thou  no  longer  reach  us? 
There  sing  without  our  praise?     We  are  not  sad. 

We  cannot  be,  for  thou  hast  left  for  knowing, 
For  thinking,  loving,  all  thy  works  and  thee. 
They  praise  thee  best  who  best  to  God  are  showing 
Them  thou  hast  taught  to  know,  to  love,  to  be; 
That  in  their  souls  some  little  seeds  are  growing. 
In  blessing  showered  from  thou  bounteous  tree; 
Some  little  sparks  of  keener  fancy  glowing, 
Kindled  at  thy  rich  flame  of  poesy; 
Some  little  streams  of  faith  and  freedom  flowing 
To  pulse  accordant  with  thy  boundless  sea. 

From  Browning  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  pp.  68-70.* 


THE  BURIAL  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Michael  Field 

Upon  St.  Michael's  Isle 

They  laid  him  for  awhile 

That  he  might  feel  the  Ocean's  full  embrace, 

And  wedded  be 

To  that  wide  sea — 

The  subject  and  the  passion  of  his  race. 

As  Thetis,  from  some  lovely  under-ground 

Springing,  she  girds  him  round 

With   lapping  sound 

And  silent  space: 

Then,  on  more  honor  bent, 

She  sues  the  firmament 

And  bids  the  hovering,  western  clouds  combine 

To  spread  their  sabled  amber  on  her  lustrous  brine. 

It  might  not  be 
He  should  lie  free 

Page   One  Hundred   Tiuenty-five 


HOMAGE        TO 


For  ever  in  the  soft  light  of  the  sea, 

For  lo!  one  came, 

Of  step  more  slow  than  fame, 

Stooped  over  him — we  heard  her  breathe  his 

And,  as  the  light  drew  back, 

Bore  him  across  the  track 

Of  the  subser\aent  waves  that  dare  not  foil 

That  veiled,  maternal  figure  of  its  spoil. 

Ah!  where  will  she  put  by 

Her  journeying  majesty? 

She  hath  left  the  lands  of  the  air  and  sun ; 

She  will  take  no  rest  till  her  course  be  run. 

Follow  her  far,  follow  her  fast. 

Until  at  last, 

Within  a  narrow  transept  led, 

Lo!  she  unwraps  her  face  to  pall  her  dead. 

'Tis  England  who  has  travelled  far, 

England  who  brings 

Fresh  splendor  to  her  galaxy  of  Kings. 

We  kiss  her  feet,  her  hands, 

Where  eloquent  she  stands; 

Nor  dare  to  lead 

A  wailful  choir  about  the  poet  dumb 

Who  is  become 

Part  of  the  glor}^  that  her  sons  would  bleed 

To  save  from  scar; 

Yea,  hers  in  every  deed 

As  Runnymede, 

Or  Trafalgar. 

From  the  London  Spectator. 


TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 
By  L.  Ormiston  Chant 

Browning  has  left  us;  he  went  from  us  singing 

Songs  of  the  old  world  up  into  the  new 

Just  a  last  lay  to  his  lovers  down-flinging 

Lover  of  love,  and  the  truest  of  true! 

How  we  shall  mourn  for  him,  long  for  him,  need  him, 

Miss  the  bright  ring  of  his  clarion  note 

Page  One  Hundred  Twenty-six 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


Piercing  the  frosts  of  the  mists  in  the  morning, 
Miss  the  night-trill  from  the  nightingale's  throat. 
What  have  we  lost?     Not  the  path  where  he  led  us 
Over  the  moorlands  of  thought  to  the  sea; 
Not  the  steep  climb  up  the  crags,  where  he  waited. 
While  we  drew  breath,  and   though  panting,  were  free. 
These  he  has  left;  but  the  sunshine  he  lent  them 
Died,  when  he  died,  with  the  light  in  his  ej'es. 
What  have  we  lost?     Why  the  soul  of  the  music; 
Voice  that  gave  tongue  to  the  winds  from  the  skies. 

Browning  has  left  us,  he  went  from  us  singing; 
Never  a  song  more  triumphant  than  his! 
Like  a  great  billow  high-rising,  and  flinging 
Thunder  and  psalm  where  the  hurricane  is. 
So  fell  his  voice  on  men's  storms  and  uprisings, 
Sounding  clear  faith  o'er  doubt's  turbulent  wave, 
Wise  and  so  kind  his  deep  thoughts  for  the  doubters, 
Leading  them  forth  from  the  land  of  the  grave. 
Yet  with  a  love,  such  a  love,  ringing  through   it, 
Born  of  his  grief  in  a  desolate  prime. 
Bidding  all  love  follow  Love,  and  for  ever 
Pass   to   her   beautiful   presence,   in   time. 
Now  he  has  gone.     His  dear  name  in  the  heaven 
Of  the  world's  singers  shines  out  like  a  star, 
Great  Poet,  and  Teacher;  true  lover,  we  follow 
O'er  valley  and  mountain,  to  seek  thee  afar! 

From  Browning  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  p.  66*;  also  in 
The  Women's  Penny  Paper,  Dec.  21,  1889. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


By  Elizabeth  Porter  Gould 

— A  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast. 

O  thou  soul  of  my  soul,  I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest! 


Page  One  Hundred  Twenty-seven 


HOMAGE        TO 


BROWNING 

By  Irene  Elder  Morton 

He  sits  at  last  among  his  peers, 

While  we  stand  chilled  with  eyes  grown  dim 

In  looking  over  life's  grey  fields, 

And  feel  the  heart-light  folded  in. 

O  great  soul!  entered  in  to  know 

The  fulness  of  the  Central  Life! 

O  giant  leader  of  the  race. 

Who  never  with  the  world  made  strife, 

But  led  it  surely,   grandly  on, 
Scaling  clear  heights  with  leap  and  bound, — 
Then,  beckoning  with  a  strong  man's  hand, 
He  kept  his  way  to  higher  ground! 

No  maudlin  cry  he  gave  the  world, — 
"Behold  my  grief,  pity  my  pain;" 
Strong  as  the  breath  of  Alpine  hills. 
Sweet  as  the  sound  of  summer  rain. 

The  songs  he  gave  us.     Evermore 
The  deathless  might  of  English  speech 
Shall  sound  their  notes  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  to  the  coming  nations  teach 

That  it  is  nobler  to  endure. 
And  smother  back  the  cry  of  pain — 
Shall   call   us  onward   to   the  heights, 
To  press  ahead  and  bear  the  strain. 

He  wore  no  caste-bound  fetters  here; 
A  man  of  men  he  proved  his  soul; 
The  mighty  pulse  within  his  words 
Beat  full  and  free  above  control. 

The  illumined  fringes  of  his  thoughts 
Have  set  the  world's  face  after  him, 
As  one  would  follow  clear  flute  notes 
Heard  in  cool  aisles  of  forests  dim. 

With  loving  face  of  child  and  friend 

Ta^e  One  Hunrhe^I  Twcnty-ehht 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


To  look  on  as  the  last  of  earth, 
God  wrapt  him  in  a  robe  of  light, 
And  gave  him  strong  immortal  birth. 

He  looks  again  in  the  clear  eyes 
Of  her,  the  love-dream  of  his  youth, 
The  moonlit  side  of  his  great  heart, 
To  whom  he  gave  his  manhood's  truth. 

Perfect  conditions  of  new  life 
Are  vibrant  to  his  being  there, — 
Gone  in  to  feel  the  wider  thrill, 
Gone  in  to  breathe  the  purer  air. 

From  A  Treasury  of  Canadian  Verse,  edited  by  Theodore 
H.  Rand,  p.  249;  published  with  permission  of 
author. 

IN  MEMORIAM 

By  Robert,  Lord  Houghton 

Robert  Browning,  Died  I2th  December,  1889 

The  tale  of  how  you  found  the  promised  rest 

Flashed  fast  from  north  to  south,  from  sea  to  sea. 

My  father's  friend,  all  friendliness  to  me. 

Dear  Scholar-Poet, — ever  welcome  guest: 

And  gone  you  are  to  seek  your  loved-one's  breast, 

Sped  your  free  soul  from  Italy  the  free, 

Soul  never  flinching  from  the  dim  To  Be, 

Nor  doubting  of  the  Good, — and  thus,  'tis  best. 

'Tis  best, — and   I,  six  thousand  miles  away 

From  your  and  Nelson's  Abbey*  arched  in  gloom. 

Hear  through  the  surge  that  thunders  on  the  bay 

An  echo  of  your  verse's**  roll  and  boom 

That  doubly  sanctifies  Trafalgar  day, — 

And  waft  this  Afric  leaf  to  reach  your  tomb. 

Capetown,  1889. 


*  At  the  battle  off  Cape  St.  Vincent,  "Nelson  .  .  .  gave 
orders  for  boarding  ...  it  was  done  in  an  instant,  he  himself 
leading  the  way.  and  exclaiming — 'Westminster  Abbey,  or  vic- 
tory!' " — Southey's    "Life    of    Nelson." 

**  "Home  Thoughts  from    the   Sea." 

From   Stray    Verses    1889-1890;   London,   John   Murray, 
Albemarle  St.,   1 89 1 

Page  One  Hundred  Twenty-nine 


HOMAGE        TO 


SONNET 

By  Mrs.  Louise  Chandler  Moulton 

The  Century  was  young — the  month  was  Maj^ — 
The  spacious  East  was  kindled  with  a  light 
That  lent  a  sudden  glory  to  the  night, 
And  a  new  star  began  its  upward  way 
Toward  the  high  splendor  of  the  perfect  day. 
With  pure  white  flame,  inexorably  bright, 
It  reached  the  souls  of  men — no  stain  so  slight 
As  to  escape  its  all-revealing  ray. 

When  countless  voices  cried  "The  Star  has  set!" 
And  through  the  lands  there  surged  a  sea  of  pain, 
Was  it  Death's  triumph — victory  of  Woe? 
Nay!     There  are  lights  the  sky  may  not  forget; 
When  suns,  and  moons,  and  souls  shall  rise  again. 
In  the  New  Life's  Vv^ide  East  that  star  shall  glow. 

From  The  Bi-oivnings  and  America,  p.  38;  published  with 
permission. 


TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  George   Meredith 

"Now  dumb  is  he  who  waked  the  world  to  speak, 

And  voiceless  hangs  the  world  beside  his  bier. 

Our  words  are  sobs,  our  cry  of  praise  a  tear: 

We  are  the  smitten  mortal,  we  the  weak. 

We  see  a  spirft  on  Earth's  loftiest  peak 

Shine,  and  wing  hence  the  way  he  makes  more  clear: 

See  a  great  Tree  of  Life  that  never  sere 

Dropped  leaf  for  aught  that  age  or  storms  might  wreak. 

Such  ending  is  not  Death:  such  living  shows 

What  wide  illumination  brightness  sheds 

From  one  big  heart,  to  conquer  man's  old  foes: 

The  coward,  and  the  tyrant,  and  the  force 

Of  all  those  weedy  monsters  raising  heads 

When  Song  is  murk  from  springs  of  turbid  source." 

From  Broivtiin<r  Society  Papers,  Part  12,  p.  27;  also  Pall 
Mall  Budget,  Dec.  13,  1889. 

Page  One  Hundred  Thirty 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING 
(1812-1889) 

By  John  Savary 

Last  irony  to  last  age  of  iron — blundered 

Earthward  fallin*:;  not  a  meteor  vain, 

But  a  starry  poet  soul  that  wondered 

How  Jove's  eagle  fell,  that  late  soared  again! 

Cloud-rapt  and  rushing  onward  in  disdain, 

Power  along  the  far-shining  track  down   thundered 

Past  mc  his  long  thoughts'  heaven-laden  train. 

Jarring  sense  by  weight  and   speed   of  packed  brain 

Which  fruitage  bore  of  ages  grasped  and  plundered. 

We  ne'er  shall  see  his  equal  or  a  second 

He  has  gone  from  us,  still  condensing  scorn 

Of  our  language  here  for  his  too  high-born 

Thoughts:    ^Eschylus  and  Shakespeare  him  have 

beckoned. 
And  we  hear  as  when  Balaustion  said 
Unto  a  friend  "Euripides  is  dead." 

From  Literary   World,  Jan.  4,    1890. 


THE  TWELFTH  OF  DECEMBER,  t88q 

By  Richard  Watson   Gilder 

On   this  day  Browning  died? 
Say,  rather:     On  the  tide 

That  throbs  against  those  glorious  palace  walls; 
That  rises — pauses — falls, 
With  melody,  and  myriad-tinted  gleams; 
On  that  enchanted  tide, 

Half  real,  and  half  poured  from  lovely  dreams, 
A  Soul  of  Beauty — a  white,  rhythmic  flame — 
Passed  singing  forth   into  the   Eternal   Beauty  whence  it 
came. 

From  "Browning  Memorial" :  published  ivifli  the  permis- 
sion of  the  Boston  Browning  Society. 

Page  One  Hundred  Thirty-one 


HOMAGE        TO 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Frederic  Breton 

{Died  at  Venice  lO  p.  m.,  December  12,  1889) 

The  lamp  is  out!    The  house  of  clay 

Stands  dark  and  tenantless  to-day! 

"To  him  and  us,  is't  loss  or  gain?"  you  say. 

See!    Yonder  flashed  a  meteor  bow! 
An  instant  only,  and,  beyond  the  flow 
Of  salt  lagoon,  we  saw  the  ocean  glow. 

An  instant  only!    Then  the  night 

Seemed  darker  than  before  the  light 

That  broke  our  blindness  with  its  arrow  flight. 

The  darker? — Yes!    But  we  have  learned 

In  vain,  for  what  our  spirit  yearned 

— The  wider  world,  whereon  that  meteor  burned? 

A  world  outside  our  little  woe 

Kept  wholesome  by  the  ebb  and  flow 

Of  mighty  tides! — Gain  surely,  this  to  know? 

So  stand  we  at  the  outer  gate 

Whence  beamed  a  beacon  light  of  late, 

But  now  untenanted,  dark,  desolate. 

Yes!    House  all  darkness,  but  the  road 

Of  life  where  shone  that  kind  abode. 

The  brighter  for  the  Pisgah  sight  bestowed! 

For  Meteor,  Master, — both  made  plain. 

Around  a  life  of  seeming  bane, 

God's  reconciling  ocean. — This   our  gain! 

And  his't — Yet  greater,  for  away 

From  night,  he  sees  in  deathless  day 

His  faith  fulfilled — Love,  Power,  come  full  in  play. 

From   The  Academy,  December  lO,    1896. 
Page  One  Hundred  Thirty-two 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps-Ward 

Nay, — let  the  soul  go  its  own  way  upon 
Its  last  desire;  mine  to  the  uttermost 
Do  ye  fulfil.     Thus  shall  it  be.     Obey. 
Within  the  crypt  where  England  calls  her  great 
Greatest,  and  names  her  dearest  yet  more  dear 
Unto  the  prayers  than  to  the  pride  of  men, 
Let  Shakespeare,  loving  lightly,  rest  content. 
Leave  Milton,  desolate  in  home  and  tomb. 
Leave  placid  Wordsworth  to  his  sylvan  dream. 

For  me,  I  do  aspire  more  highly  than 
The  grandest  lonely  ghost  in  Westminster. 

"Where  the  heart  is,  let  the  grave  be,  also." 

"Soul  of  my  soul!"  I  "show  thee,"  and  "die  last." 

Behold,  I  am  awearied,  and  would  sleep. 

No  place  for  me,  where  was  no  place  for  Her. 

Poets  and  sages  chosen  of  all  time! 

Ye  to  your  glory  go, — I  to  my  wife. 

Fro  171  New  York  Independent. 


AT  KING'S  CHAPEL 

January  28 

By  Mrs.  Annie  E.  Johnson 

Awhile  from  the  crowded  street 
Are  stayed  these  hurrying  feet. 
In  the  chapel,  stately  and  old. 
Why  gather  today  the  throng? 
A  poet's  heart  is  cold, 
A  glorious  king  of  song. 

Soft  music,  swelling  clear. 
Breaks  the  solemn  silence  here; 
In  the  softly  shadowed  light. 
Glow  roses,  red  and  white; 

Page   One  Hundred   Thirty-three 


HOMAGE        TO 


Lillies  and  laurel  leaves 
A  delicate  fragrance  shed ; 
Here  many  a  spirit  grieves, 
For  Browning,  dead. 

To  give  him  honor  due, 
Meet  kindly  hearts  and  true. 
Those  who  have  loved  his  song 
So  hopeful,  glad  and  strong 
(Read,  haply,  now  through  tears). 
They  love  the  generous  thought, 
To  nobler  action  wrought, — 
In  this  they  are  his  peers. 

Poet,  whose  laurelled  head 
Rests  in  the  Abbey's  gloom, 
Where  England's  sacred  dead 
Lie  grandly  sepulchred, 
And  thou,  whose  simple  tomb 
Is  'neath  Italian  skies, 
Where  the  white  roses  bloom — 
Here   by   the  western   sea. 
Our  land,  in  its  love  for  ye, 
Is  England  J  is  Italy! 

From    the  Boston    Transcript. 

BROWNING 

By  Alicia  Van  Buren 

When  Raphael  heard  the  crowd  applaud  his  art. 
He  smiled  up-buoyed  with  pleasure;  yet,  I  trow, 
No  laudatory  phrase  could  thrill  his  heart 
Like  one  short  word  from  Angelo. 

So  Verdi,  when  the  plaudits  wax  most  loud, 
Forgets  the  cheering  and  the  wreaths  that  fall. 
And  looks  where  sits,  amid  the  noisy  crowd, 
"Rossini  patient  in  his  stall." 

And    Browning — let  the  world   give   praise  or  blame ! 
Two  voices  he  could  hear,  and  ever  heard : 
The  voice  of  Landor,  trumpeting  his  fame, 
And  hers,  "half-angel  and  half-bird." 

From    the   Boston    Browning  Society    1909-1910,   p.   20; 
published  zuith  permission  of  the  Society. 

Page  One  Hundred  Thirty-four 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


'NOTHING  BUT  A  POET' 

By  W.  C.  Gannett 

'He  sat  and  .talked  of  his  own  early  life  and  aspirations; 
how  he  marvelled,  as  he  looked  back,  at  the  audacious 
obstinacy  which  had  made  him,  when  a  youth,  determine 
to  be  a  poet  and  nothing  but  a  poet.' — Edtnitnd  Gosse  on 
Robert  Browning. 

'Nothing  but  a  poet!'    So  he  said,  and  wondered 

At  the  sole  persistence  of  his  years. 
Laughing  world,  you'll  know  it,  now  that, 
silence-sundered, 

He  is  in  the  welcome  of  his  peers. 

What  said  Milton  to  him,  what  said  Keats 
and  Shakespeare? 
O,  to  see  the  smile  on  Dante's  face! 
Catch  the  great  Greek  xatpe,  hear  the  'bronze  throat' 
hail  him, 
'Browning's  come  among  us, — give  him  place!' 

'Nothing  but  a  poet,'  singing  songs  of  soul-growth, 

Splendor  in  the  pain-throb,  rise  in  fall, 
'Saul  the  failure'  in  us  re-creating  kingly, — 

Songs  one  surge  of  morning!    That  was  all! 

Browning  Coinnienioration,   1890. 

TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 
By  Mrs.  E.  Dickinson  West 

True-hearted  Seer,  whose  keen  and  steady  eye 
Keeping  a  view-point  on  an  eminence 
That  reacheth  Aither,  o'er  the  world  of  sense. 
Doth,  as  from  prophet's  watch-tower,  thence  descry 
Proportions  of  the  things  of  earth  and  sky, — 
Tell  us  thy  vision  when  our  sight  is  bound 
Where  little  swellings  of  the  lower  ground 
Seem  our  life's  only  truths  because  they  lie 
Betwixt  the  soul  <.nd  things  whereof  it  saith 
"This  I  believe"   (which  meaneth  "this  I  let 
Please  vacant  fancy  in  one  day  in  seven.")  — 
— Strengthen  thy  brethren  by  thy  strength  of  faith 
And  teach  our  human  love  in  trust  to  set 
Its  continuity  'twixt  Earth  and  Heaven. 

Page  One  Hundred  Thirty-five 


HOMAGE        TO 


ROBERT  BROWNING 
By  William  Sharp 

'One  who  never  turned  his  back    but  marched  breast  forward, 
Never   doubted    clouds   would   break, 
Never  dreamed,   though  right  were  worsted,  wrong  would 
triumph: 
Held   we   fall   to   rise,    are   baffled   to   fight  better. 
Sleep  to  wake.' 

{Died  at  Palazzo  Rezzonico,  Venice,   12th  December. 
Interred  in    Westminister  Abbey,   ^ist  December.) 

So,  it  is  well:  what  need  is  there  to  mourn? 

What  of  the  darkness  was  there,  of  the  dread, 

Of  all  the  pity  of  old  age  forlorn 

When   the   swift   mind   and   hand   are   though   as   dead? 

Nothing:    the  change  was  his  that  comes  to  days 

When,  after  long,  rich,  restful  afternoons, 

A  sudden  flush  of  glory  fills  the  skies: 

Thereafter  is  the  peace  of  dream-fraught  moons. 

And  then,  oh!  then  for  sure,  in  the  eastern  ways 

At  morn,  once  more  Life's  golden  floods  arise. 

Ay,  it  is  well:  what  better  fate  were  his? 
Why  wish  for  him  the  twilight-greyness  drear? 
He  hath  not  known  the  bitter  thing  it  is 
To  halt,  and  doubt,  grope  blindly,  tremble,  fear: 
The  reverend  snows  above  his  forehead  brought 
No  ominous  hints  of  that  which  might  not  be, 
No  chill  suggestion  of  the  ephemeral  soul: 
Unto  the  very  end  'twas  his  to  see 
Failure  no  drear  climacteric,  but  wrought 
To  nobler  issues,  a  victorious  goal. 

There  where  the  long  lagoons  by  day  and  night 

Feel  the  swift  journeying  tides,  in  ebb  and  flow, 

Move  inward  from  the  deep  with  sound  and  light 

And  splendour  of  the  seas,  or  outward  go 

Resurgent  from  the  city  that  doth  rest 

Upon  the  flood  even  as  a  swan  asleep. 

Or  as  a  lily  'mid  encircling  streams, 

Or  as  a  flower  a  dusky  maid  doth  keep, 

An  orient  maid,  upon  her  love-warm  breast. 

Thrilled   with   its   inspiration   through   her   dreams: — 

There,  in  the  city  that  he  loved  so  well, 

And  with  the  sea-sound  in  his  ears,  the  sound 

Page  One  Hundred  Thirty-six 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


Of  healing  waters  in  their  miracle 
Of  changeless  and   regenerative  round, 
The  strange  and  solemn  silence  that  is  death 
Came  o'er  him.    'Mid  the  loved  ones  near 
The  deep  suspense  of  the  last  torturing  hope 
Hung  like  a  wounded  bird,  ere  swift  and  sheer 
It  fall  with  the  last  frail  exhausted  breath 
And  feeble  fluttering  wings  that  cannot  ope. 

There  death  was  his:  within  his  golden  prime. 

Painless,  serene,  unvanquishcd,  undismayed, 

He  fronted  the  dark  lapse  of  mortal  time 

With  eyes  alit,  through  all  the  gathering  shade. 

With   the  strange   light   that   clothes   immortal    things — 

Beauty,   and   Truth,   Faith,   Hope,   and  Joy,   and   Peace, 

The  garnered  harvest  of  our  human  years, 

Fair  dreams  and  hopes  that  triumphed  o'er  surcease. 

The  immaculate  sweetness  of  all  bygone  Springs, 

The  rainbow-glory  of  transfigured  tears. 

Over  him  went  the  Powers,  the  Dreams,  the  Graces, 
The  invisible  Dominations  that  we  know 
Despite  the  mystic  veil  that  hides  their  faces, 
The  immortal  faces  that  divinely  glow: 
Fair  Hope  was  there  to  take  him  by  the  hand; 
White  Aspirations  smiled  about  his  bed; 
Desires  and  Dreams  moved  gently  by  his  side; 
Beauty  stooped  low,  and  shone  upon  the  dead; 
Joy  spake  not,  for,  from  out  the  Deathless  land. 
She  led  God's  loveliest  gift,  his  long-lost  Bride. 

Oh,  what  a  trivial  mockery  then  was  this. 

The  change  we  so  involve  with  alien  terror: 

How  lorn  in  light  of  that  supernal  bliss 

The  ruinous  wrecking  folly  of  our  error! 

Sweet  beyond  words  the  meeting  that  was  there. 

Sweet  beyond  words  the  deep-set  yearning  gaze. 

Sweet,  sweet  the  voice  that  long  had  silent  been! 

Ah,  how  his  soul,  beleaguered  by  no  maze. 

No  glooms  of  Death,  i'  that  Paradisal  air 

Knew  all  was  well,  since  She  was  there,  his  Queen. 

They  are  not  gone,  those  Dreams,  Fair  Hopes,  and  Graces, 

Those  Powers  and  Dominations  and  Desires, 

They  are  not  passed,  though  veiled  the  immortal  faces, 

Page  One  Hundred  Thirty-seven 


HOMAGE        TO 


Though  dimmed  meanwhile  their  eyes'  wild  starry  fires. 

Meanwhile,  it  may  be,  on  wan  wings  and  slender, 

Invisible  to  mortal  gaze,  they  gleam 

In  solemn,  sad,  processional  array 

There   where   the   sunshafts    through     stained     windows 

stream, 
And  flood  the  gloomful  majesty  with  splendour. 
And  charm  the  aisles  from  out  their  brooding  grej'. 

They  are  not  gone:  nor  shall  they  ever  vanish, 
Those  precious  ministers  of  him,  our  Poet: 
What  madness  would  it  be  for  one  to  banish, 
To  barter  his  inheritance,  forego  it. 
For  some  phantasmal  gift,  some  transient  boon! 
Thus  would  it  be  with  us  were  we  to  turn 
Indifferently  asi5e,  when  they  draw  nigh, 
To  look  with  callous  gaze,  nor  once  discern 
How  swift  they  come  and  go,  how  all  too  soon 
They  evade  for  ever  the  unheeding  eye. 

They  are  not  gone:  for  wheresoe'er  there  liveth 

One  hope  his  song  inspired — whom  they  inspired — 

Yea,  wheresoever  in  one  heart  there  breatheth 

An  aspiration  by  his  ardour  fired : 

Where'er  through  him  are  souls  made  serfs   to   Beauty, 

Where'er  through  him  hearts  stir  with  lofty  aim. 

Where'er  through  him  men  thrill  with   high  endeavour, 

There  shall  these  ministers  breathe  low  his  name, 

Linked  to  ideals  of  Love  and  Truth  and  Duty, 

And  all  high  things  of  mind  and  soul,  for  ever. 

No  carven  stone,  no  monumental  fane, 

Can  equal  this:  that  he  hath  builded  deep 

A  cenotaph  beyond  the  assoiling  reign 

Of  Her  whose  eyes  are  dusk  with  Night  and  Sleep, 

Queenly  Oblivion:  no  Pyramid, 

No  vast,  gigantic  Tomb,  no  Sepulchre 

Made  awful  with  imag'ries  of  doom. 

Evade  her  hand  who  one  day  shall  inter 

Man's  proudest  monuments,  as  she  hath  hid 

The  immemorial  past  within  her  womb. 

For  he  hath  built  his  lasting  monument 
Within  the  hearts  and  in  the  minds  of  men : 
The  Powers  of  Life  around  its  base  have  bent 

Page  One  Hundred  Thirty-eight 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


The  Stream  of  Memory:  our  furthest  ken 

Beholds  no  reach,  no  limit  to  its  rise: 

It  hath  foundations  sure;  it  shall  not  pass; 

The  ruin  of  Time  upon  it  none  shall  see, 

Till  the  last  wind  shall  wither  the  last  grass, 

Nay,  while  man's  Hopes,  Fears,  Dreams,  and  Agonies 

Uplift  his  soul  to  Immortality. 

From   The  Art  Review,  Vol.   i.  No.  2,  pp.  33-34-35-36; 
published  with  permission  of  the  editors. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

{December  12th ,  1889) 
By  George  O'Byrne 

To  the  princely  son   of   Shakespeare,    of    fair    Lyceum 

renown, 
Whose   fealty   to   the   Drama  hath    won     the    Thespian 

crown. 
Inscribed  is  my  brief  Epicede  on  one,  whose  transit  hence 
Hath  struck  the  soul  with  sorrow,  and  'waked  sympathy 

intense. 
For,   well   'tis  known,   his  vision,   by  the   process  of   the 

Stage, 
Is  broadened,  and  his  heart  laments  the  lost  bard  of  the 

Age; 
And  with  graciousness  will  listen  to  the  elegy  I  quire. 
Albeit  sparse  in  genius,  and  tenderness,  and  fire. 

I    who   crewhile   sang  of   Byron,   and   of   Burns,   and   of 

Kirke  White. 
In   the  worn   year's   dusky   waning  mourn   another   bard 

of   light. 
Lying  cold,  and  mute,  and  dreamless,  set  by  the  Hours 

free. 
In   a  palace  of   the  "Bride,"   and   "glorious  City   in   the 
ea. 

Ah !  the  bards,  where'er  their  cradle,  by  prior  right  belong 
To  the  rich  haunts  of  the  Muses  in  the  sunny  lands  of 

That  sparkle  from  the  Apennines  to  past  the  ^Egean  Sea, 

Pase  One  Hundred  Thirty-nine 


HOMAGE        TO 


Shrine  the  glories  of  Parnassus  and  the  fames  of  Thessaly. 

Where  Art  still  claims  her  temples,  though  old  worship- 
pers are  flown, 
And  to  the  wistful  pilgrim  Freedom  crieth  from  the  stone: 
Where  gorgeous,  silent  sculptures  speak  an  empire  passed 

away ; 
And  flash  the  gondolas  along  the  tradeless,  purple  bay, 
He   sleeps    in    rigid   calmness,    the   white-haired    minstrel 

prince, 
Who  won  a  world's  idolatry — I  reck  not  how  long  since. 
Though   her   "Lion's   Mouth"   is  sealed   and   her    Doges 

rule  no  more, 
In  Desolation  beautiful  she  touches  the  heart's  core; 
For  her  genii  wrought  their  marvels  in  the  spell  of  eld 

Argives, 
Ere  modern  atom-counters  span  mere  chrematistic  lives: 
And  her  trophies  are  not  lessened   because   to-day   there 

sleeps 
The  grand  bard,  sumptuous  Albion,  with  fallen  Venice, 

weeps. 

While  Science  slays  her  thousands,  battling  in  the  van 

of  Truth; 
And  "Excelsior" — streamer  waving,  falls  her  Alp-aspiring 

youth ; 
While  the  weary  world,  half-hopeless,  searches  for  each 

dim  abyss 
To  grasp  a  "golden  compass,"  or  hail  new  star  of  bliss: 
When   empirics   and     their    myrmidons,     with     dynasties 

conspire 
To  burn  the  prophet's  life-scroll,  and  quench  the  Muse's 

lyre, 
We  shall  miss  his  notes  of  beauty,  of  strong  solace,  and 

high  hope, — 
That  message  from  the  gods  to  us,  without  an  envelope! — 
We  shall  miss  his  velvet  finger  on  the  pulse  of  hot  emprise. 
We  shall  miss  his  soothing  anodynes  in  labour's  agonies. 

Who  hence  shall  harp  his  music?  shall  weave  fit  anadem 

To  crown  the  scholars'  temples,  or  intone  their  requiem? 

For  Bryant  and  sweet  Longfellow  sleep  'neath  Columbia's 
"Stars," 

Where  the  palsied  hand  of  Whittier  his  vernal  "wood- 
notes"  mars; 

Page  One  Hundred  Forty 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


And   Hugo    (though   I   loved   him   not)    has    found    his 

monument, 
And  'Martin'  of  Philosophy,'  the  weirdly  sapient; 
And  good  Eliza  Cook  warms  not  the  breast  with  noble 

thought ; 
While   Tennyson's    most    dulcet    lute    the    "rift    within" 

hath   caught. 
In  regal  halls,  Roumania's  Queen  alone  thrills  Sappho's 

lyre ! — 
What   monarch   stoops   to   acolyte   the   proscribed    poets' 

choir? 
While    Altar,    Senate,    Throne,    and    Camp    deride    each 

other's  voice 
How  may  the  Muses  flourish,  how  can  the  Arts  rejoice? 

Who  now  shall  urge  explorer  lone  through  sombre  forests 

proud, 
O'er  Arctic  snows,  and  towermg  peaks  that  pinnacle  the 

cloud  ? 
And  kindle  pcean  for  serried  hosts,  that,  marching  forth 

in  pain, 
With  hasty  Tasch,'    and  bleeding  feet,  have  reached  the 

Red  Tide's  plain? 
And    then,    'midst    frenzied   billows,   shall    point    to    safe 

rock  higher, 
And  proudly  sound  joy's  timbrel  across  the  'Sea  of  Fire?' 
And  harking  back  to  Miriam,  my  mind  greets  Browning's 

bride. 
The  fair  lip  whisp'ring  *'God  is  rest,'  in  long  years  by 

his  side. 
The  minstrel   learned    it  was  'not  good'   for  man   alone 

to   dwell; — 
That  'the  Voice  which  breathed  o'er  Eden'  a  changeless 

truth  doth  tell. 
With  all  the  Muses'  dowry,  and  the    'permit'    of    each 

Grace, 
The  nuptials  of  a  poet  and  poetess  found  place. 
A  tear  for  her,  reposing  'midst  Italia's  deathless  bowers 
Of  consecrated  myrtle,  in  the  "City  of  All  Flowers!" 

'Twere  meet,  methinks,  that  minstrel  souls   (born  in  the 

merry  May) 
Should    wing    their    flight    when    Christmas    floods    the 

world  with  hollied  ray: 
If  lose  we  must  their  halo,  let  us  yield  it  at  the  birth 

Page  One  Hundred  Forty-one 


HOMAGE        TO 


Of  Light  supreme,   whose  heaven  is  then   reflected   over 

earth. 
For  we  joy  to  paint  them  thridding  a  paradise  of  peace 
While  belfry  chimes  tell  mortals  of  divinest  harmonies, 
And  the  chastened  snow,  like  mercy,  dropping  gently  on 

their  tombs, 
Transforms   the   cypress   o'er   them   to    celestial    nodding 

plumes ; 
When   the   'Truce   of   God'    is   signalled    from    remotest 

clime  to  clime 
By  the  watchers  of  Eternity  to  sentinels  of  Time: 
When,  gathering  by  the  ingle,  in  the  effluence  of  love, 
We  anticipate  re-union  with  remembered  souls  above. 
Rehearsing  golden  lessons  of  immortal   Sage  and  Child, 
Made  dearer  by  the  Poet  who  late  amidst  us  smiled. 


*  Elizabeth — "God  is  rest." 
Nottingham,  December ^   1889. 


TO  THE  POET 

{A   Sonnet) 

By  Riichior  Hoashi 

Take  me,  O  Poet,  to  thy  world  of  dream, 

Where  countless  cherubs  on  their  pinions  white 

Wander  through  stainless  Virtue's  silver  light. 

And  bask  in  heavenly  Love's  auroral  gleam; 

Or  where  thou  treadest  the  star-sprinkled  stream 

Of  Galaxy,  upon  whose  banks  the  bright 

Amaranths  blow!    Soothed  by  the  beauteous  sight 

And  balmy  air,  our  life's  a  dream,  a  dream 

Is  life.     Strike  up  thy  lyre,  O  Seer,  O  Bard, 

Awake  thy  fancy's  sweetest  tune,  for  none 

But  thine  may  soothe  my  sorrow-laden  heart! 

Construct  for  me  a  rainbow  bridge  to  span 

The  highest  heaven,  whence  Truth's  live  fire  s-vhall  dart 

Into  m.v  frozen  soul  and  make  me  man! 


Page  One  Hundred  Forty -two 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


THY  CROWN'S  A  STAR 

Dedicated  to   Robert  Broiuning 
By  Annis  J.  Scott 

rhe  pathway  narrows  as  we  wander  down, 
And  leave  the  hillside,  rugged,  rough,  and  brown. 
We  look  toward  sunlit  meadows,  bright,  and  gay. 
With  flowers  that  catch  the  sunshine  of  the  day. 

Still  farther  on,  a  river  runs  so  still, 
We  hear  not,  see  not;  yet  we  know  its  will 
Is  to  be  silent,  till  we  reach  its  brink, 
And  into  its  soft  shadows,  gently  sink. 

Upon  its  banks,  tall  grass  and  rushes  grow, 
That  sway,  and   nod,  as  gentle  zephyrs  blow. 
Refreshed,  we  rise:  flows  on  the  river,  slow, 
Between  its  banks,  where  reeds,  and  rushes  grow. 

This  valley  green,  with  flowers  so  gay  bedecked. 
This  river,  cool,  its  current  still  unchecked, 
Could  never  to  the  multitude  be  blest, 
Did  not  yon  mountains  give  the  vale,  their  best. 

From  these  great  towers,  glowing  with  their  light, 
Come  streams  of  strength,  and  brilliancy,  and  might. 
The  valley,  ricH  with  their  great  wealth,  was  made. 
And  hills  rejoiced  to  rest  within  their  shade. 

O  mountain-peaks,  that,  reaching,  pierce  the  dome; 
O  meadows,  sweet,  that  blossom  where  we  roam; 
O  river,  flowing,  ever,  'tween  thy  banks, 
Let  us,  whose  footsteps  wander,  give  thee  thanks. 

We  see  beyond  the  river's  farther  side, 
A  Mountain,  proud,  where  gods  of  thought  abide: 
With  crown  of  silver,  shining  like  a  star. 
Distinct,  alone,  'mong  many  stars  that  are. 

We  heed  not  that  the  pathway  narrows;  now 

We  catch  the  glory  shining  from  thy  brow. 

O   Friend,   and    Seer,    thou'st   filled   the   meadow   sweet, 

With  flowers  fair,  to  soothe  the  wanderer's  feet! 

Thy  feet  have  trod  the  narrow,  narrow  way; 
Thy  hills  are  left;  and  at  the  close  of  day. 
Thou  slipped  into  the  stream;  it  goes  its  way. 
But  thou  arose.     Thy  crown's  a  star,  today. 

Page  One  Hundred  Forty-three 


HOMAGE        TO 


ASPIRATION* 

Dedicated  to   Robert  Browning 
By  Alice  Harriman 

Oh,  gallant  little  English  lad, 
You  never  knew  the  time, 
When  you  did  not  intend  to  be 
Most  eminent  in  rhyme. 

Immortal  company  you  chose! 
Endymion  was  your  friend ; 
And  Shelley's  sky-lark,  every  morn, 
Was  wont  your  heart  to  rend. 

The  poets  of  the  English  Lakes 
Enticed,  with  beckoning  hand, 
To  climb  to  hills  whereon  they  stood; 
To  view  the  promised  land, — 

Range  after  range — Parnassian  peaks, 
Of  purest  poetry. 

"I'll  scale  them  all!"  your  spirit  cried; 
" 'Sky-treader'  would  /  be!" 

But    somehow,  on  your  natal  day, 
I  see  you,  wistful,  sad. 
If  it  could  be,  oh,  would  you  be. 
Again  a  little  lad? 


*Browning's  sister  said  he  once  told  her  he  never  knew 
the  time  when  he  did  not  aspire  to  be  eminent  in  rhyme. 
— Gosse. 


Page  One  Hundred  Forty-four 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


THE  MASTER  SINGER 
By  Elizabeth  Clendenning  Ring 

"Master!"  the  Singing  Men  acclaim  thee, — pale 

Before  thy  altar  fires, 
Like  winds   before   the   rain's   grey   flail, 

To  muted  lyres, 

Their  voices   rise  and   fall. 

Thou   moving  down   the  starry  ways, 

With  tread   Olympian, 
Whisp'ring  some  bold,   symphonic  phrase, 

In  thy  perfected  song, 

To  shades  Elysian, 
Dost  smiling  hear  their  hymns  of  praise. 

Flute-clear  behind  the  old  grey  wall. 
Still  echoes  Pippa's  dreamlit  call, 
And  oft  when  down  a  dust-bleak  street. 
Her  laughing  song  goes  lilting,  sweet, 
Men  stop  to  ponder  the  strange  dream, 
Awakened  by  her  song  serene. 

Still  Andrea  mourns  his  tarnished  dreams, 
The  dying  Bishop  plots  and  schemes. 

To  lie  in  blissful  ecstasy, 

'Neath    matchless   lapis   lazuli. 
Still,  down  a  haunted  Roman  Street, 
Pompilia  hastes  with  bleeding  feet, 

Swift  to  her  doom. 

Sordello,  Ezra,  grave  physicians, 
Blougram  and  Sludge,  inspired  musicians. 
Women  divine  and  maids  whose  tresses 
Lure  men  to  death  with  mad  caresses. 
Each  in  his  turn,  upon  thy  stage, 
Work  out  thy  creed  Immortal  Sage. 

That  Love  exalted,  all  persistent, 

Shall  reign,  though  Hate  may  mock  and  scheme, 

That  Righteousness,  with   note  insistent. 

Shall  quench  Wrong's  brutal,  sordid  theme. 

That  Truth  above  the  market  place. 

Where  Falsehood  flaunts  her  shameless  grace, 

Shall  lift  the  glory  of  her  face. 
?) 

PfJ^e  One  Hundred  Forty-five 


HOMAGE        TO 


ART  AND  POPULARITY 

To  R.  Broiuning 

C'No   ?nan   having  drunk   old  wine  straightway  desireth 
neiv,  for  he  saith  the  old  is  better"). 

By  E.  D.  W.    (Elizabeth   D.  West  Dowden) 

Haply  thy  life  were  harmed  if  earth  her  fame 

Had  proffered  ere  years  proved  thou  didst  not  need 

Drink  of  applause  Arts'  daily  force  to  feed ; 

Ere  the    ttoit^t?;?   —God, — deep  source  whence  came 

Thy  poet's  impulse,  bade  thee  first  to  claim 

Reward  like  to  His  own — true  artists'  meed 

Of  joy  that  flows  in  essence  of  the  deed, 

Unreached  by  accident  of  laud  or  blame. 

But  now,  since  thou  through  long  uncrowned  days 

Didst  draw  soul's  strength  from  draughts  of  that  old  wine 

Of  gladness,  which  doth  evermore  sustain 

All  Nature's  working,  human  or  divine: 

No  fear  for  thee,  lest  thou  that  first  good  gain 

Shouldst  quit,  to  thirst  for  new  wine  of  men's  praise. 

1892. 

Printed  zvith  kind  permission  of  Mrs.  Edward  Dozvden. 
Page  One  Hundred  Forty-six 


Page  One  Hundred  Forty-six 


"Or  at  times  a  modern  volume, — Wordsworth's  solemn- 
thoughted  idyl, 

Howitt's  ballad-verse,  or  Tennyson's  enchanted  reverie, — 

Or   from   Browning  some   'Pomegranate',   which,   if   cut 
deep  down  the  middle. 

Shows    a    heart    within     blood-tinctured,     of    a    veined 
humanity." 

"Lady   Geraldine's  Courtship" 

Elizabeth   Barrett. 


INDEX 


Anonymous — Letters    of    Robert    Browning    and    Eliza- 
beth   Barrett   107 

Anonymous — Browning    118 

Anonymous — A    Sonnet    on    Browning 122 

Bates,   Katherine   L. — In   the   Poet's   Corner 101 

Beatty,   Palienham — To  Browning  58 

Bennett,    A. — Browning    110 

Bennett,    Sarah    A. — What    Comes    to    Perfection    Per- 
ishes    55 

Bigelow,    Walter    S.— To    Browning    121 

Bowen,    Robert    A. — Browning    43 

Breton,  Frederic — Robert  Browning  132 

Bridell-Fox,    E.    F. — Robert    Browning 101 

Britton,   J.   J. — Browning  at   "The    Cenci" 54 

Browning,  Elizabeth  B. — Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese..     7 
Browning,  Elizabeth  B. — From  "Lady  Geraldine's  Court- 

sliip" 148 

Brunton,  Wm. — Letters  of  Robert  Browning  and  Eliza- 
beth  Barrett   lOG 

Buchanan,    Robert — Robert   Browning    52 

Bulkeley,   H.   J. — On   Hearing  of  the  Death   of   Robert 

Browning    123 

Burr,  Amelia  J. — Greathearf 24 

Burton,    Richard — Browning 26 

Burton,   Richard — The   Camberwell   Garden  41 

Bynner,  Witter — To  Robert  Browning 25 

Carman,  Bliss— The  Two  Bobbies  47 

Carman,  Bliss — In  a  Copy  of  Browning 64 

Carman,  Bliss — The  Time  and  the  Place 79 

Cawein,'   Madison — Browning    40 

Chant,  L.   Ormiston — To   Robert  Browning 126 

Chapman,    E.    R. — Browning    120 

Chenery,   Ruth   B.— A   Greeting   to   Browning   Lovers....  56 
Chenery,   Ruth  B. — Browning   Said   of   "The   Ring   and 

the    Book"    63 

Chenery,   Ruth   B. — Sonnet  on  Browning's   Masterpiece 

"The    Ring   and    the    Book" 67 

Chenery,    Ruth    B. — On    the   Bronze    Clasped    Hands    of 

Robert   and   Elizabeth   Barrett  Browning 88 

Cheney,   Anne    C — Clasped    Hands   88 

Clarke,' Clement  G. — To  Browning  53 

Clarke,  Helen    A. — To    Robert    Browning 45 

Coates,  Florence — Robert  Browning  102 

Coles,  Blanche — To  Mrs.  Thomas  B.  Stowell  and  Mrs. 

Sidney    J.    Parsons    83 

Cone,  Helen  Gray— The  Iris-Bridge  105 

Cranch,    C.   P. — Robert   Browning   116 

Dawson,    Miles    M. — Browning    57 

De  Vere,   Aubrey — Robert  Browning  45 

De   Vere,   Aubrey — Robert  Browning   78 

De  Vere,  Aubrey — Robert  Browning  116 

Domett,  Alfred — Browning  22 

Enos,    Sanda — Sordello    83 

Field,  Michael — Robert  Browning  121 

Field.  Michael— The   Burial   of   Robert  Browning 125 

Forman,  Alfred — Mountain-Birth    54 

Forman,    Alfred— At    Browning's    Grave 118 

Gannett,  W.   C— "Nothing   but  a   Poet" 73 


INDEX 

Gates,   Mabel   B. — To   Robert   Browning 75 

Gilded-,    Richard    W. — ^"Jocoseria" 84 

Gilder,  Richard  W.— The  Twelfth  of  December,  1889....131 

Gosse,    Edmund — To   Robert   Bi-owning 60 

Gould,    Elizabeth    P. — Robert    Browning 127 

Guild,    Marion    P. — To    Robert    and    Elizabeth    Barrett 

Browning    93 

Harriman,  Alice — In  the  Garden  of  the  Vatican 94 

Harriman,    Alice — Aspiration    144 

Hoashi,  Riichior — To  the  Poet 142 

Houghton,  Lord  Robert — In  Memoriam  129 

Hughes,  James  L. — To  a  Browning  Poem 55 

Hutchinson,    Thomas — Robert   Browning    122 

Huxley,    Henrietta — Browning    112 

I.,  H.  McL. — Suggested  by  the  Epilogue  in  "Asolando" 

(Greek)    135 

Jewett,  John   H. — Browning's   Shrine 91 

Johnson,  R.  U. — Browning  at  Asolo 87 

Johnson,   Annie    E. — At   King's    Chapel 133 

Kingsland,  W.  G. — Essay  on  Robert  Browning,  Decem- 
ber,   1886    61 

Laifan,    Bertha — Robert   Browning    61 

Landor,   Walter   S. — To   Robert   Browning 22 

Lee,  Agnes — To  Robert  Browning 44 

Lefterts,  Sara  T. — Brownmg  46 

Le  Gallienne — Browning   42 

Levey,    Sivori — The   Women   of   Browning 66 

Lovejoy,  Wallace  W. — Leadership  in   Song 89 

MacKaye,  Percy — Browning  to  Ben  Ezra 28 

MacKaye,  Percy — Invocation  38 

Mackey,   Eiic — To   Robert  Browning   53 

Mann,  Dorothea  L. — Browning  49 

Markham,  Anne  C— The  Girl  With  the  Blue  Eyes 76 

Markham,  Edwin — Imagination     36 

Markham,  Edv/in — To   Browning   40 

Marquis,  Neeta — The   Sonnets  from   the  Portuguese 74 

Medhurst,  Francis — An  Invocation  39 

Meredith,  Owen — The  Wanderer  78 

Meredith,    George — To    Robert    Browning 130 

Molineux,   Marie   Ada — Robert   Browning 49 

Moore,   Mrs.   Bloomfield — On   the   Heights 51 

Moore,   Clara  B. — Idol  Affections   115 

Moore,    Clara   J. — Dedication   of    Poems    to    My    Friend 

Robert  Browning  56 

Morton,  Irene   E. — Browning  128 

MouUon,  Louise  C. — Browning  107 

Moulton,   Louise    C. — Sonnet    130 

Noyes,  Alfred — For  the  Centenary  of  Robert  Browning..  23 

O'Byrue,   George — Robert  Browning  139 

Oldham,  J.  B.— The   Poet's   Way 52 

Owen,   John — In    Memoriam — Robert   Browning 112 

Palgrave,  F.  T.— At  29  De  Vere  Gardens 119 

Park,    Humphreys — "Childe    Roland" 74 

Peet,  Jeanie — Browning  57 

Pendleton,    Charlotte— Salve    106 

Phelps,  C.  E.  D.— Browning 58 

Phelps-Ward,   E.    Stuart — Robert   Browning 133 

Porter,    Charlotte— A   Birthday 42 

Porter,  Charlotte — In  Praise  of  Browning 43 

Porter,    Charlotte— Djabal's    Song    84 

Porter',  Charlotte— Anael's  Song  92 


INDEX 

Pound,    Ezra — Mesmerism    •. 46 

Preston,    Margaret   J. — Prospexit 100 

Rawnsley,  H.  D. — Take  Home   Her  Heart 90 

Rawnsley.   H.    D. — The    Poet's    Homo-Going 108 

Rawnsley,  H.   D.— At  Browning's  Grave 117 

Rice,  Cale  Young — In  Praise  of  Robert  Browning 27 

Ring,  Elizabeth   C— The   Master  Singer 145 

Rodd,  Rennell— At  Fano  85 

Sawyer,    Harriet   A. — Robert   Browning 62 

Savary,  John — To  the  Memory  of  Robert  Browning 131 

Schauffler,  Robert  H. — To  Browning  the  Music-Master..  72 

Scott,  Annis  J.— Thy  Crov/n's  a  Star 143 

Sharp,   William — Robert   Browning 136 

Shillaber,  B.  P. — In  a  Copy  of  "Agamemnon  La  Saisiaz 

and  Dramatic  Idyls"  79 

Smith,   George   Jay — Browning   Society 80 

Sterling.    George — An    Ode    for    the    Centenary    of    the 

Birth  of  Robert  Browning 68 

Stone,    Theo — Browning    75 

Swinburne,  A.  C. — A  Sequence  of  Sonnets  on  the  Death 

of    Robert    Browning    96 

Symons,    Arthur — Dead    in    Venice 98 

Tannenforst,  Ursula — Divided  103 

Teasdale,  Sara — The  Year's  at  the  Spring 37 

Trantham,  Henry — A  Farewell  135 

Untermeyer,  Louis — Caliban   in   the  Coal  Mines 82 

Upson,  Arthur — The  Two  Nightingales 27 

Upson.  Arthur — The  Rezzonico   Palace 105 

Van  Allen,  Wm.   H. — Robert  Browning's   Birthday 48 

Van  Buren,  Alicia — Browning  134 

Van  Dyke.    Henry — Browning's    Lineage 63 

Watson,    Wm.— The    Two    Felicities 62 

West,  E.  Dickinson — To  Robert  Browning  on  Re-Read- 
ing  Some  Poems  Long  Unread 59 

West,  E.   Dickinson — Browning  and   Shelley 76 

West,  E.  Dickinson — To  Robert  Browning 135 

West,    E.    Dickinson — Art   and    Popularity 146 

Whiton-Stone — Browning    59 

Widdemer,  Margaret — Robert  Browning  50 

Wile,    Frances    W. — Robrt    Browning 77 

Woods,  Mary  A. — Robert  Browning 47 


LOAN  DEPT. 

,  .   J      ™  the  Ust  date  stamped  below,  ot 


LD  2lA-50m-8 '61 

(C1795sl0)476B 


r;eflef  al  Library     . 
Um^«f«^  of  California 

Berkeley 


I^lbbl81 


^arrfir,  A. 

Homar.e  to 
"irovming 


Rcbort 


953f 
T166 

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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY 


